Drew Rosalind Must Die
by Galbinus-Rayquaza
Summary: Upon discovering that they were all being cheated on by suave player Drew Rosalind, Misty, Marina, and Dawn enlist May, the unfortunate new transfer, to help 'overthrow' Grass Ass, or so deemed by May's Japanese correspondent, Ruby. CONTESTSHIPPING!
1. Introductions

**Hello, all! (; **

**I've been toying around with a slightly different way of writing. And since I'm a lazy little git, I've stolen 'John Tucker Must Die's plot. Heheh. There will be some twists, though. I shouldn't tell you, however. If you've watched the movie, there will be some changes though nothing will be completely altered; if you haven't watched the movie, well, it's an awesome movie, but. . . you don't want the surprise all ruined, do you? DO YOU?!**

**Anyway. CONTESTSHIPPING FOOL. (And a side serving of others, listed in the bottom A/N.) Told in May's perspective. I don't own Pokemon or the movie **_**John Tucker Must Die**_**. Mmkay?**

**Drew Rosalind Must Die  
****CHAPTER ONE: Introductions  
**_**A Pokemon fanfic by  
Galbinus-Rayquaza**_

Hi! My name's May Maple, _full _name Maybelline Sapphire Maple. Most people call me May, and my best friend calls me Sapphire. I call him Ruby. Well, that's not really important right now.

My mother, Caroline Maple, is probably the most beautiful woman on the planet. Seriously. I think she's won Miss America or something when she was younger. She gets a lot of boyfriends, and my brother, Max, and I have to move around with her a LOT every time they break up. . . which explains why I don't have many friends. . . technically, I only have one.

Right now, I think, we're living in Houston. Oh? I mean New York City—you know, the Big Apple, or something of the sort. I've never really liked the Yankees anyway; I've favored the Red Sox, even though their uniforms aren't actually red. . . Pity. Red is an awesome color.

Wherever we move, whether it be Alaska or Washington or California or Kansas, my mom always immediately gets hit on by all the male neighbors. . . I mean, I don't think I'm all that ugly, but compared to her, I'm practically a pig. Bit depressing every time you're trying to socialize with the hot neighbor, the instant he sees your mom he starts flirting with her and you are totally ignored.

Max doesn't find this much of a problem—no, my brother is more of a science and computer geek. He spends his entire free time cooped up in his room. He used to have black hair, but after a rather unfortunate chemistry experiment, it turned a permanent shade of dark blue. I don't think he knows of mom's regular dilemmas, which means that I am always the one who ends up fetching her chocolate or vanilla ice cream (depending on her taste at the moment) from the fridge and scooping it into her plate as she cries because Frank or Bob or whatever broke up with her.

I just call all of my mom's boyfriends and ex's Skip. They don't seem to mind all that much, probably because they run away after sleeping with her the next morning. I keep telling her to stop sleeping with men every time she goes on a date with them, but I don't think she hears me.

My mom's a great person, really. She listens to all of my academic problems; she's not an idiot, though she acts like one around hot guys _all _the time. I'm not an idiot as well, though I've been told on quite a few occasions that I'm rather klutzy and a bit slow. I try really hard at everything, though, but somehow, I never seem to succeed. . . it's like I can't find my talent, or something. I do pride myself on the fact that all of my science scores have been straight A plus's so far. (Max only reminds me on a daily basis how he gets straight A plus's in all his subjects, though. . .)

Oh, great. Here comes another guy, ringing on our doorbell. I put down the cardboard box of expensive china dishes and walk tiredly over to our door, which still reeks of fresh paint, and tentatively pull it open.

"Hello?" I ask, scanning the boy. He's very hot with his dirty blonde hair, if I must say so myself, and dressed in a simple white T-shirt and rumpled-looking jeans; he's about fifteen or sixteen, and is lazily holding a dish of cookies in his right hand. A light blush spread across my porcelain face—that's another bad thing about me, I can never tan.

"Are you Mary Maple?" He asks dully in a low, drawling sort of voice that perfectly suits his rugged appearance. I start to correct him, but he marches right in without my permission, brushing easily past my short figure. How rude! "Oh, and my mother forced me to bring these cookies over, personally I don't give about you."

"Um, actually, my name is—" I start to say, watching hesitantly as his muddy brown gaze searches the room. Boxes of every size and shape litter the floor. I'm not quite sure what color the carpet is, though I remember explicitly telling mom to buy a red one. . . then again, she was sort of making out with Skip at the time, so I don't know if she heard me.

At that precise moment, said mother walks slowly down the stairway. Her curly russet hair is pulled back in an elegant, high ponytail, swinging down to her waist, and though she is only wearing a simple cardinal top and ridiculously low-hanging tight jeans, she has all the majesty of a queen. My mom's face is matted in heavy makeup, but I don't think that the blond boy noticed, since his eyes are both widened in awe as he ogles my mother.

I sigh quietly as he immediately shoves the dish of cookies into my mother's unsuspecting hands. Her glossy lips part to form a surprised 'o', but the blond Skip is already starting to woo her with the usual, "Hi, who are you? You're hot. Wanna go out?"

Slinking my thin body easily behind my mother, I make my way upstairs. Hopefully she can fend off this loser by herself. I walk, exhausted from sitting cramped in my mom's shiny pink sports car for seven hours straight, into my room and plop myself dejectedly on the bed, which is still covered in plastic.

I ponder calling Ruby—or Brendan, more technically, though another nickname of his is Yuuki—but, doing some quick calculations in my head, estimate that it is about three o'clock in the morning where he is right now, in Tokyo, which is 'technically' my hometown. I haven't gone there since my father Norman, a respected politician, died in a car crash.

Tears well up in my sapphire eyes as memories of Dad come to mind. He was the best father ever, and I know that I would be living very differently if he were still alive. Dad's from Japan, and when he first met mom, she was barely twenty and a young, aspiring model. He was always very polite (though very strict), and when he and Mom got married, he changed _his _last name from Sugimori to Mom's Maple to honor her.

I brush away these nauseating thoughts and, despite the fact that my stomach is growling from hunger, fall asleep on the bed.

**Later**

"May! Wake up! It's your first day at work in that restaurant you applied for!" The scratchy voice of my brother blares. Groaning, I pull my pillow further over my head, muffling Max's voice. He slams his powerful little fists on my back, and I instantly jerk awake, screaming bloody murder and pounding after him, streaking down the stairs.

My mother is in the kitchen. I look around, glad to see that blond Skip hadn't stuck around. . . we had just moved here, after all. A nice suburban house off the outskirts of New York City is rather hard to find, in any case. I recall the three weeks Max, Mom, and I lived in her small car. Uncomfortable times, those were.

"Hey, Mom, what's for breakfast?" I ask, seating myself on a chair as Max disappears upstairs again—he's a lot faster than he looks, much to my disappointment. I haven't been very successful sports-wise, despite Ruby's efforts to get me in the various sports he's participating in. That's one awesome thing about having both a near-child prodigy and a sports genius for your best friend. At the moment, however, I am intent on getting my breakfast.

"Oh, just some _maple _syrup pancakes," Mom answers, grinning cheekily and displaying her dimples. The white apron tied around her looks far too old-fashioned for my mom, but my thoughts are on the food as she carries over a pan full of steaming pancakes.

Squeezing maple syrup out of a bottle I found by the side of my plate onto the pancakes, I dig in. A few minutes later, the plate is once again sparkling clean. Mom smiles matronly and takes the plate for cleaning; I observe her for a while, considering how I might have to clean dishes at the restaurant I'm going to work for, though my primary job is being a waitress, which I'm rather good at if I must say so myself. In fact, save for the couple of time I broke dishes, I'm rather coordinated at my job.

"Well, shouldn't you be going now?" Mom inquires warmly. "Your college fund isn't going to add up by itself, you know, honey. And school begins in less than a week, so you want to take advantage of the several times you have to work full-time."

"I know, Mom," I say, rolling my eyes. She pats me for good luck on my shoulder. I examine my current clothes—a collared gray T-shirt with a red circle print around the collar to signify my half-Japanese decent, though I look far more like my mother than my dad. I immediately shake away the thought as I did not want to arrive at work looking teary-eyed and decide that the jeans I'm wearing aren't half-dirty.

Pulling on my yellow sneakers, which were of Ruby's design—I forgot to mention to you that Ruby, besides from being a talented athlete, martial artist, and incredible academic achiever, is also aspiring to become a clothes designer—I dash out the door, clipping on my dandelion-yellow fanny pack and waving to Mom, and hop on my bicycle, making sure that the city map is in the basket.

After about an hour of wrong turns and asking random strangers where to go, I find the restaurant I'm supposed to be working at. It's not in the center of the city, but rather sitting at the very outer brim, so it's not too far away from home. In fact, I reckon that it's a half-hour speed cycling to there, but I'm not the best map-reader in the whole world.

The restaurant itself looks conspicuous among its tall steel siblings—it's two stories and very ornate looking, lacking the professional aura that the taller buildings gave off but glutting in fanciness. I've seen better, though, and don't waste my time gaping at the impeccable cream-and-orange décor and park my bicycle, making sure to lock it so that nobody can steal it. (I've only lost three bikes to remind myself of the consequences.)

Walking into the restaurant, I walk to the lady behind the main counter and ask her in my most polite voice, "Excuse me, but I'm May Maple. I'm supposed to be starting work here. . .?"

"Ah. Right on time, Ms. Maple," The lady, who has plaited dark brown hair, several shades darker than my own coffee-colored hair—which, despite any efforts, remained stubbornly bouncing and always fluffed up in the morning—says kindly. I almost sigh in relief; I absolutely detest being late, though tardiness has a way of finding me. "You've been a waitress before, I trust?"

"Yes," I say, dipping my head in graciousness and hoping that she won't make me go through a tedious training session—I've had enough of those to last a lifetime.

"Hm. I guess I won't give you a training session then,"—_thank god! _I think to myself—"but let you learn from experience. However, you should know that we don't tolerate consecutive numbers of mistakes here at the Blue Moon Restaurant, so you'd best be following the other waitresses' footsteps."

_So that's what the restaurant's called! _I make a mental note to remember that. People get very upset for some reason if you forget what their establishment is called.

"In fact, I'll pair you with a more experienced waitress—Brianna!" The plaited-haired lady says sharply, snapping her manicured fingers. A light brown-haired girl with a shy but professional demeanor appears almost instantly by her side. I nearly drop my jaws at her speed, but plaster a courteous smile across my face. "Brianna here will be your guide until you've attained enough experience to work by yourself."

"Cool!" I beam, melting into my usual bubbly self. I grab Brianna's hand since I was almost positive she wasn't going to help me, and pull her aside so the old women behind us could talk with the receptionist lady. "So, your name's Brianna, right? I'm May!"

Brianna, who I notice is a little bit shorter than me despite the fact that I'm hovering at a threadbare five foot two, nods timidly and says, "Hello. Well, I guess I should get to showing you the strings right?"

"Sounds cool!" I say. We spend the next hour or so simply her teaching me the 'do's and 'don't's of working at Blue Moon—_do _smile every three seconds, _don't _forget to say 'thank you sir/madam/miss', _do _ask them whether they would like ice with their drink, _don't _mess up the beginning speech, _do _immediately clean up after the visitors when they're gone. It turns out that Blue Moon Restaurant is quite popular, after all.

"All right, I think I've told you all you need to know," Brianna finishes, dusting her hands. She hands me an apron and a white cap laced with green ribbons, which for some reason is supposed to signify that I'm starting out. I immediately put them on and begin searching for people in need of being waited on.

A tall teenaged boy, dressed in a rakish black tuxedo, is sitting down with an almost-as-tall teenaged girl. Without bothering to further examine their appearances, I bounce up to the pair and start saying, "Hello- and- welcome- to- New- Moon –er –I –mean-Blue –Moon –restaurant –how –may –I –help –you -today's –special –is –the –clam –soup –and -it's –half –off –so –may –I –take –your –order –now –please?"

I glance up from my check board only to feel my heart leap to my throat. The boy, who, judging by his muscular frame and overall height, is about sixteen, and has the most dazzling emerald eyes. His hair is silky chartreuse, sprawling artistically across his forehead, and he flicks his bangs most suavely. His complexion is of fairest white. I feel really tan next to him, and hope that a blush hasn't spread to my face; he probably doesn't notice, though, since he's chatting animatedly with the girl.

I then turned my gaze to said girl, who looks a little younger than the green-haired teenager and is approximately twelve times prettier than I. Her vermillion-orange hair is pulled into a sleek side ponytail, and her entire willowy physique makes me feel extremely fat. I glance down at my curves and reassure myself that I am not fat—which doesn't really work.

"So. . ." The green-haired tuxedo-wearing teenager coos in a deep, serene voice, wrapping his arms around the girl's dangerously low-hanging indigo dress that flaunts her bust—which in reality probably is not larger than my own, but I clutch the check board closer to my own chest nevertheless, very self-conscious and feel very jealous of the orange-haired girl for some reason. "Sweetie-pie, what would you like?"

The girl flirtatiously cocks her head to one side. "I'll take the garden salad, please. And that clam soup you were talking about."

Assuming that the girl was addressing me, since she was currently engaged in the activity of thrusting her tongue down the green-haired boy's, I jot down the order and force myself to wait for the two to finish exchanging saliva. Approximately two minutes later, the green-haired teenager pulls away and waves at me, muttering, "Steak," and then continuing their intimate activity.

Repulsed, I gladly rush away to take their order, vaguely noticing Brianna's light blue gown disappearing in the woman's bathroom. I've seen enough kissing in ten years to last _two _lifetimes.

**Later**

It was just the next day when I go back to work that I discover some valuable information about the (attractive) green-haired boy. I bike my usual route to the restaurant, having discovered some shortcuts through dark alleyways, park my bicycle, and dash into the restaurant.

Brianna runs me through the usual talking-to phase, though this time it's a lot simpler since I had shown that I could hold my own in the waiting business. She wishes me the best of luck and walks away to take the order of several important-looking men all clutching briefcases and looking important. I glance around and wait for people to leave or beckon to me.

As fate would have it, the green-haired teenager enters through the door with a girl in his hand and sits down at his usual table (which, despite the fact that there were some twenty-other people waiting, was vacant.) He flicks his hair again and begins talking, no, flirting with the girl. However, I notice that the girl was different from the one from yesterday! Was this boy dating them at the same time?

Hate swells inside of me, replacing the temporary eagerness that had come up previously. I hate players above all else. They are the ones who were constantly causing my mother distress, and the ones who make my life so messed-up and hectic. I resist the urge to spring onto the green-haired boy and tear his disgustingly sexy hair off his head.

Forcibly, I stride up to their table, knuckles whitening as I was clutching my check board so hard, reluctantly taking in the appearance of the new girl—she was of medium height and, unlike the other girl, had very little curves but emanated the 'elongated' look, and like the other girl, was twelve times prettier than I was. Her layered dark blue hair cascades to her waist, and her skin is lightly tanned, just enough to give off a golden sort of glow. Gold clips keep the hair by the sides of her head from getting into her pointy Asian face.

Without even acknowledging my presence, the green-haired teenager tickles the new blue-haired girl's chin and whispers seductively into her ear, "What would my sweetie-pie like?"

I flinch at the pet name, since I knew it was one of the devices players use to 'apparently' show care but actually only use because they forget the names of their dates. I bite my tongue really hard from shrieking out this observation, and force myself to take down 'sweetie-pie's order ("same as his," which was his "regular", which I assumed to be the "steak.")

"You know, that top looks really hot on you," The green-haired teenager comments coolly, rasping his tongue over the girl's ear and referring to the _very _revealing black tank top the girl is wearing. I flinch but the girl giggles girlishly. "I'd bet it'd look even _hotter _off of you." Her response was to giggle even more and let the boy enrapture her in passionate kisses.

Disgusted, I stalk away with their two orders.

**Later**

So, 'Mr. Green-haired Hotshot' was even more of a player than I had thought!

The third time he came in, his arms were entwined around another blue-haired girl's. My eyes twitched as he once again addresses the girl as 'sweetie-pie' and asks for what she would like. She doesn't seem to have heard him, though, since unlike the others, while she did kiss him lightly on the cheek, her main interest was in critically examining the menu.

Her shiny cerulean hair, pulled into two girly long-hanging pigtails that stick up at odd angles by the sides of her necks. Glaring at the menu without even looking at me, she demands in an indignant, high-pitched voice, "There isn't a vegetarian's salad?"

Confused, I explain in a meek voice, "Well, there is the garden s—"

At that precise moment, however, the green-haired teenager leaps up and begins shouting, "What?! There's not vegetarian meal?! This is absolutely awful! How disgusting! You slaughter animals, and yet you feel no remorse?! How, how—" He looks too irate to continue. Yet despite his yelling, his face hasn't changed color; not even a tint of pink.

I cower, afraid to point out the fact that he has ordered steak for the past two times.

"It's okay, it's okay," The girl chides in a soothing voice, touching the green-haired teenager's side. He immediately flops down, looking extremely harassed. A lot of heads have turned in his direction, and I feel embarrassed by the whole scene. "I'll eat salmon for you." The girl adds lovingly, nuzzling her cheek against the green-haired boy's. It was then that I notice he looked and looks relatively indifferent throughout his entire date. And disobediently, a spark of hope ignites in the midst of hatred that is dominating my head for the green-haired boy.

I scribble down the two 'lover's orders and walk away, shooting oblique glances over my shoulder, each time noticing sullenly that the two were kissing, a positively blissful expression on the orange-haired girl's face and a somewhat cold one on the boy's.

Brianna, who appears by my side, gapes at me and asks in an astonished whisper, "Did you just wait on—on—him?!" She jabs a thin finger towards the green-haired boy's direction.

"Yes," I answer, pushing as much venom and hatred into my voice as possible.

"Oh my god! Do you have _any _idea who he is?" Brianna squeals, her bobbed haircut, well, bobbing up and down. I eye her uncertainly, unsure why she is acting so excited, but shake my head in reply. "He's only _the _Andrew Rosalind! But we call him Drew. Drew _Rosalind,_" She adds dreamily.

I look at Brianna as if she is crazy, because she is. How could she express adoration for a—a—disgusting _pig _like him?! And how could the other girls not know that he was cheating on all of them?!

"Drew's the basketball star of Oak High. Drew's also the only junior center forward in like forever. Drew's favorite color is green. Drew is six feet two. Drew's had twenty-seven girlfriends and counting since he came to Oak High. Drew. . ." Brianna informs me. I am only able to take in the first five facts or so before my train of thought wanders off.

_Oak High? _The name rings a bell, though I am unable to quite place it. Then it clicked—Oak High is the high school I am going to in five days! The pit of my stomach turns from fiery hot to icy cold and I gulp. Brianna doesn't notice and continues chatting away—I wonder how she knows Drew's shoe size and the brand of cologne he uses. (I forget both.)

The world puzzles me. But so do a lot of other things. I wonder what Ruby's opinion would be on the matter, and resolve to phone him tonight, regardless of his sleeping schedule. He would just have to deal with it.

**Author's Notes:**

**Well! Did you like it? Not like it? Have suggestions? Have questions? Have comments?**

**Oh, and here are the other shippings that may be featured at one time or other in the story:**

**Contestshipping (DUH)  
Newrivalshipping  
Hoennshipping  
Hoennchampionshipping  
Palletshipping  
Pokeshipping  
Gymshipping  
Twinleafshipping  
Ikarishipping  
Penguinshipping  
Questshipping  
Specialrockshipping  
Waterflowershipping  
Belleshipping**

**A lot, no? There may be some more I left out. . . The main focus will be on Contestshipping, though.  
**

**Please review! This story may be deleted if there's not enough interest in it, and yes, I count interest by review number. So. . . if you want this to be continued. . . REVIEW!**


	2. May's Wonderful First Day At School

**Wow. 19 reviews? About four times more than the amount I expected to get. . . I'm glad you all liked the story that much to review, anyway. (: THANK ALL OF YOU REVIEWERS!**

**As you may or may not have noticed, I edited the first chapter slightly. What I mainly did was swap Misty with Marina, since their personalities sort of clashed with the girls in the movie's. It's not a really big change, but it will help clear up any potential OOCness in future chapters.**

**Thanks to:**** Arc Knight for beta'ing this chapter. Or, to be more correct, will beta this chapter. **

**Dedication:**** Pondertheworld, because she's cool like that. B)**

**Disclaimer****: If I like, owned Pokemon, that would be, like, totally awesome, like. But I don't, like, own Pokemon. Well, did you, like, expect me to?**

**Drew Rosalind Must Die  
****CHAPTER TWO: May's Wonderful First Day At School  
**_**A Pokemon Fanfic by  
Galbinus-Rayquaza**_

Furious, I practically hurl my bike at the rack next to the flight of stairs leading up to the house. Then I hurl myself up the flight of stairs, barging indignantly inside the room with an indignant sort of war-like bellow. Max, who for once was not in his room, glanced up at me, looking alarmed. His glasses were actually a bit lopsided.

Ignoring my brother, I immediately seek out the phone and praying that it would work, pick it up and began punching in Ruby's phone number at an astonishing speed. I have his number memorized by heart.

_Please please please let Ruby be awake, _I pray to myself, shutting my eyes and crossing my fingers over my chest as the phone rings ominously. Bring. . . Bring. . .Bring. . . "Hello?" The voice of Ruby, feminine but masculine at the same time, chimes through the receiver, sounding very fatigued.

"RUBY!" I burst out, clutching the phone as if it were my life line.

"Uh. . . Sapphire?" He whispers harshly, sounding thoroughly annoyed. "It's four o'clock in the morning over here."

"This is very important, though!" I protest childishly. As usual, Ruby, as empathetic as ever, signals his relent with an irritable sort of grunt. "You see, there's this person called Andrew something or—"

"Wait. Andrew? That's a boy's name." Ruby says, suddenly sounding very sharp. I sigh to myself; Brendan is always very protective of me, sometimes overly so, and he claims this is because he doesn't want me to walk down the same path that my mother did. Pfft, as if I would. I _learn _from mistakes, you know. . . well. . . _kind _of.

"Yeah." I say, hurriedly adding before he could ask me anything else about this 'Andrew' fellow, "He's a disgusting pig! He's dating three different girls at once, and yet they all have no idea that he's cheating on them! Urgh! And the way he talks to them—you'd think that he was trying to sell them a country or something!" I continue in this fashion for another minute as Ruby patiently waits for me to finish. Or he could have dozed off or something.

However, my last thought is negated as Ruby immediately pipes up after I finish, "Look, maybe you should tell these girls or something. . . if I'm not incorrect, both you and 'Drew' go to the same school, right?"

I ogle the receiver. Did I remember that load of information Brianna gave to me hours earlier? Weird. "Yeah, yeah," I answer quickly.

"Well, then it's highly likely that these three girls you speak of are from the same school. Therefore, you could probably tell them when school starts, if that's what you want," Ruby recommends, sounding professional. I see the point he is making and nod in agreement; then, remembering that he could not see me, I say a fast "Okay" into the receiver. An audible yawn comes from Ruby's line. "Well, I'm going back to sleep. . . Need to get to karate class earlier tomorrow, or rather, later today."

"What? You're still taking karate?" I say, forgetting momentarily about my friend's sleeping habits.

"Yeah. Didn't manage to get the black belt last time," Ruby says disappointedly; I can imagine his face forming a scowl. "Stupid Master Bruno got my back at the last moment. Anyway, talk soon, I suppose. Dad won't be very happy if he sees the phone bill magically multiplying over the course of the month. Good bye!"

"Bye!" I say, spirits lifted somewhat. Putting down the receiver, I float light-headedly up the stairs and begin refurnishing my room—making sure to plaster my large collection of Pokemon posters all over the walls and ceiling (I'm an obsessed fan)—and all the while the angular face of Drew haunting my imagination in more ways than one.

**Later**

I wake up tiredly to the sound of my Swablu alarm giving a series of rapid high-pitched chirps. Lazily opening one large almond-shaped blue eye, I tap the top of the plastic Swablu's head, instantly quieting it.

Pulling myself reluctantly from under my wine-red covers, I stretch and fluff up my pillow out of habit. I think I had a dream but I had forgotten it. Cracking my knuckles to freshen my mind, I walk across the hall to the vacant bathroom and shut the door behind myself, making sure to lock it so my mom doesn't randomly pop in with some guy (though it's only happened once before, the experience was _scarring._)

After brushing my teeth, I pull out my clean clothes from under the pile of dirty ones (urgh, mom's not the best housekeeper, though her pancakes are awesome) and began dressing. I pull on my long white T-shirt first of all, flattening it against my thighs. Then, I throw on my collared red blouse, dusting the smooth circular imprint underneath the collar and meticulously examine my reflection. My hair is a little frizzy, so I quickly run a comb through it.

Almost immediately, my side-bangs poof up and I tie on my red bandana, making sure to knot it tightly. I pull on my sleek navy biker shorts and, opening the door, walked through it and begin heading down the stairs, inhaling the pleasing aroma of my mother's famous blueberry pancakes.

"Well, May, it's your first day at school!" Mom says cheerily as I take my seat and she dumps a large pile of crispy-brown pancakes onto my plate. I nod, trying to quell the mad butterflies in my stomach as I wonder what high school is like, though noting with satisfaction that there is no John in sight. Max is content with reading some arithmetic journal or something—he has already finished breakfast

Pouring generous amounts of maple syrup onto my pancakes, I pick up my knife and fork and hungrily devour the entire foot-high pile of food. Max raises an eyebrow at my action but wisely refrains from commenting. Mom is humming plaintively while cleaning my brother's plates.

"I'm done, Mom!" I declare, placing the kitchen utensils on the sparkling plate. Mom stops her humming to raise her eyebrows bemusedly at the cleanliness of my plate before wordlessly picking it up and placing it in the sink. I wipe my greasy lips with a napkin and aim it for the open trash can. I miss.

Grumbling, I stride over to the trash can and somewhat jerkily throw the napkin inside the trash can; Max sniggers quietly at my slight disorientation. I shoot my brother a death glare and he shuts up remarkably quickly.

"Mom and Max! I'm going to school now!" I cry, grabbing my cream-colored fanny pack and fastidiously (save for the one time I missed a buckle and ended up incurring a rather nasty slash on my left wrist) strapped it onto my waist. My mother responds with a cheery sort of high-pitched hum and Max gives a noncommittal sort of grunt.

Somewhat miffed by my incomplete family's lack of interest in my first day of high school, I huffily stride outside the door, kicking on my shoes and taking in large gulps of the refreshing early autumn air. I smell the aurora of fallen leafs—crisp but with a dead tinge. I pad down the sidewalk and begin walking toward the first bus stop, which is, according to my mother, at the intersection of Salt Street and Pepper Street. Lovely street names, wouldn't you agree?

All I hear for the next several minutes are the chirps of birds and the tap of my sneakers on the cement. I easily locate the correct intersection, and recline on a nearby bench, waiting for the bus to arrive. Soon enough, barely thirty seconds after I sit down, the low rumbling of a large car comes from the end of Salt Street. I punctually straighten up just as the monstrous yellow bus skids to a loud stop.

The doors of the vehicle ease open and I note that the bus driver is a somewhat gaunt-looking dark-skinned man with squinty eyes. I nod my head in greeting but he does not appear to have seen, as he is busy staring at a pair of pretty woman walk across the street.

Dry-throated, I amble onto the school bus and gaze at the rows upon rows upon rows of students, all amiably chatting away with one another. Feeling very much alone despite the fact that there were approximately three dozen other kids jammed into the same bus that I am in, I locate a (surprisingly) vacant seat somewhere in the back of the bus and hurriedly sit down, avoiding the curious stares of my peers.

The doors of the school bus close and it continues its path down the street. I pass the time by looking through the window, attempting to memorize the path the bus takes, but knowing all the while that I will fail magnificently at this task owing to the fact that I have a memory about as retentive as an exceptionally porous sponge. Nobody attempts to make conversation with me, and I don't blame them. It gets a little redundant after twenty-three school transferals, after all. I calculate that I will swap schools in a few months, tops, so perhaps it doesn't matter all that much.

Ten minutes later, the bus is easing its long self around a curve in the street, and comes to a stop in the front of a three-story brick building. My eyelids flutter open from my small nap and I scan the silver words emblazoned on a large wooden panel stretching across the top of the doors of the school: "Oak High School." There are some words under the title of the school that I cannot make out, and I assume these words to be the school's motto or something of the sort.

A stream of students congest in the narrow strip of space running through the center of the bus. The bus driver stands up, and begins giving a speech in a husky voice that has the air of a talk one gives routinely, "All right, listen up, you kids." Unexpectedly, a respectful hush falls over the student body. "As you all may know, my name's Brock, Brock Slate, and I'm the bus driver around here. There's to be no fighting, swearing, drinking, or eating on my bus, or there will be consequences, y'hear?"

Everyone nods despite the harsh contents of his words, though his voice was warm and neighborly—perhaps this is why he is evidently so widely respected? Shrugging, I wait until almost everyone has left the bus before hopping behind a tall, dark-haired girl who is wearing a wide-brimmed white hat.

As I step off the bus, Brock suddenly pipes up, "Good luck to you all with your first day at school!" I turn around, about to thank him for his kind words, but the yellow vehicle is already pulling away. Well, perhaps Oak High isn't going to be that bad.

I expertly maneuver myself through the clustered crowds of high schoolers and push my way through the door. There are less people inside the building—most of them strict-looking teachers who strut about, shooting patronizing glares at the small amount of students who happened to be indoors at the time. Feeling dazed, I glance up at the high ceiling and at the shiny tiled floor beneath my sneakers before I begin to walk.

"Hey, you, you're a freshman, aren't you?" A deep male voice booms. Startled, I turn around and direct my gaze upwards at a tall, imposing and very handsome man standing behind me. His gray hair tumbles naturally into his sharp, equally gray eyes, and I find myself stuttering as I answer his question.

"Uh, yes, I'm a freshman," I say.

"What would your name be?" He asks, his voice softening.

"I'm—I'm May Maple."

"Ah, nice to meet you then, Miss Maple," The man says cordially, extending a hand for me to shake, which I grasp firmly and needlessly excitably wave up and down. "I'm Steven Stone, but you are to address me as Mr. Stone. If you were wondering where your homeroom was, you can check it out on that bulletin over there. Since it's obviously your first year here, you're supposed to go to the Guidance office in room 202. Well, it was nice meeting you!"

Mr. Stone walks off, and I am left attempting to digest what he has told me. I begin walking towards the crimson—yes for red!—bulletin board he just directed me to and flick my sapphire gaze over the mass of white papers tacked onto the soft, pliable surface.

Since my surname is 'Maple', I am usually found somewhere in the mid-bottom of name lists. After about a minute of fruitless searching, I locate a sheet of paper tacked onto the lower-right hand corner of the rectangular board with my name on it, and look at the top of the sheet of paper to note that my homeroom was in room 212 and I was with a 'Ms. Roxanne Rock.'

Out of curiosity, I check the names of the other students in my class. Being the forgetful girl that I am, I decide to scribble down the names of all my classmates in my notebook, and I end up recording:

Haste, Tyson Damion Pearl  
Ikari, Dawn Berlitz (repeat grade)  
Ikari, Lucas Diamond  
Samuels, Paul (repeat grade)  
Smith, Kenneth  
Tangerine, Zoey

As well as some others I didn't manage to write down, owing to the inconsiderate blaring of the loudspeakers. Dropping my pencil in my haste, I pick it up again and stuff both notebook and writing instrument in my waist bag. Then, I remember that I am supposed to go to Guidance, but since there was obviously no time, I play the odds and hurl myself up the stairs before I would be swamped by the incoming crowd of students.

Breathing heavily once I have reached the second floor, I look around wildly and begin streaking with all the coordination of a madwoman down the hallway, all the while glancing around myself for room 212. However, before I can find my homeroom, a strong hand apprehends me by grabbing my fanny pack and causing me to skid painfully on my rear end across the floor.

Flinching at the burning sensation in my kneecaps, who had bravely taken the most of the blow for me, I angrily look up to see the most tranquil pair of emerald eyes staring straight back at me. I instantly recognize the boy's milky-white complexion as none other than Drew Rosalind's, and with much gusto, I irately stand up, feeling my own usually pale face redden with inexplicable rage.

He stands there idly, not looking the least bit sympathetic for my cause. Heck, _he _was the one who made me trip over my own feet and land almost flat on my face in the first place! And yet I am deprived of a mere apology? I open my mouth to bark insults, but surprisingly, he manages to say something before I do.

"No running in the hallway."

Then he saunters off. Just like that. I am left feeling extremely disappointed and unsatisfied by the fact that NO, I did NOT manage to kick the hot—no, I can't think that!—teenager in the place where it hurts, and NO, he did not kiss me—

What the heck?! I swear, I'm going insane. Just because he has the loveliest pair of eyes and the softest looking green hair—

Oh. Dear. God. I haven't even properly talked with the boy, and already I am so—? I blame it on hormones, I blame it on. No, I can't possibly think he is attractive, because, as I've seen with my very own eyes, he is a player! And I hate players above all else, even the stupid New York Yankees! (But that's only because I'm a Red Sox fan.) At that precise moment, however, two students simultaneously shoulder past me and I am reminded surreptitiously that I have a homeroom to attend to.

Fuming mad, I march into room 212, which I notice ironically is not two feet to my right, and seat myself in a random chair, waiting impatiently for the other students to come in. Painfully slowly, my peers begin entering the room and seating themselves. Have they never heard of promptness? I then realize that I am rather hypocritical in making this remark since I myself am not exactly the most punctual person in the world.

A girl with blue hair walks in the class, conferring animatedly with a girl as tomboyish as she was girly, who had the spikiest, most orange mass of hair. I recognize the former as one of the girls who went out on a date with Drew, and immediately, I begin pitying her and yet envying her crazily. I don't manage to work up the courage right then and there to inform her of the truth of her date, however, and she seats herself in a chair right next to me while her orange-haired friend sits next to her.

Now, normally I'm not the type to eavesdrop, but even I have to admit that I was slightly intrigued by what the peppy teenager was so heatedly discussing with her friend, though admittedly the latter looked rather disinterested. So I most stealthily lean to the right and begin straining my ears to hear what they were talking about.

"Oh em gee, Drew is like the _best _boyfriend _ever_," The blue-haired girl exclaims, adjusting her white and rather sock-like cloth hat to better reveal her sparkly golden clips, "I mean, I'm not like kidding you, Zoey, or anything, he is _so_ nice and _really_ hot, too."

"Yeah, yeah," The orange-haired girl, Zoey, says nonchalantly, critically eyeballing her friend's dangerously short pink skirt. "Did your mom actually let you wear this, Dawn?"

"Huh?" Dawn, the blue-haired girl, said, wearing a puzzled expression on her face. However, she does not have the chance to complete her conversation with Zoey, as right then the teacher strides into the class.

Ms. Rock, as I remember was her name, is not exceptionally tall or exceptionally short, but rather somewhere in between. Her long, dark hair is braided into two scholarly plaits that fall to her waist and don't move even when she is moving, and though her outfit of cerise tights and a long, one-piece knee-length blue dress look somewhat childish, they only accent her somewhat hawk-like pink glare, which I assume are caused by her contacts.

Upon the teacher's entrance, silence quickly falls upon the class and those who are talking immediately stop. The teacher, who had been holding a heavy-looking pile of books in her arms, daintily place them on the desk and begins speaking in a British accent.

"Hello, class. I am Roxanne Rock, and I am your homeroom teacher. You may address me as Ms. Rock," She starts in a crisp voice. "Welcome to class 9-RR, and your first year at high school. Now, we have some rules in this class. First of all, I will not tolerate harassment of any kind to anyone at any time. Secondly, there is to be no. . ."

Ms. Rock continues in the same manner for a boring ten more minutes, and yet everybody sits rigid, evidently too scared to move. There is something intimidating about the way she narrates her speech, though, and I try my best not to squirm in my seat. Being a relatively impatient person, this is a difficult feat. At last, when I feel that I am no longer capable of sitting still, the teacher moves onto a more interesting topic.

"Since most of you have not been to Guidance yet, I have asked the Guidance teacher to photocopy your individual schedule copies. You are to come up and retrieve your schedule when I call your name," Ms. Rock continues saying, pulling out a previously invisible stack of papers from underneath the cover of one of her hard-covered textbooks, "Haste, Tyson Damion Pearl."

A short boy with curly blond hair immediately leapt out of his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. Several people snigger at his actions and possibly his long name, though they are silenced very quickly by Ms. Rock. Tyson nervously adjusts his tangerine scarf and barges forwards, his thin body avoiding upturning nearby tables, though just barely. Receiving his schedule, he barges back to his seat hastily.

"Ikari, Dawn Berlitz," Ms. Rock continues. Dawn stands up from her seat, flamboyantly readjusting her pink scarf, and goes to retrieve her schedule. The teacher continues in this manner for several more students, until she calls out my name, "Maple, Marybelline Sapphire."

"Oh! That's me!" I declare instinctively, later realizing that the teacher has pronounced my name wrong but dismissing it. Then, blushing at my outburst, I hurriedly jump up from my seat and go to get my schedule, avoiding the piercing stare of Ms. Rock and hurriedly walking back to my seat.

I examine my schedule, noting with a fluttering feeling in my stomach that I was to take Chemistry with the juniors instead of the freshmen and that I was to take Science with Mr. Stone, though only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I also noted that I was to have Physical Education class on a daily basis.

The bell rang again, and I quickly blend myself in with the crowd.

**Later**

The first half of the school day passes in a blur. I absentmindedly sit my way through each class, not really taking note of the teachers except to giggly examine a particularly attractive Art teacher, Mr. Wallace L'eau and deplore the fact that I have no friends at school and that I did not have Science classes on Monday.

However, on the way between third period and fourth, I pass through a group of students in the main hallway on the first floor, and it is then that I see Drew for the second time this day. He is flirting casually with Dawn, who giggles back and quickly pecks his cheek before winking lovingly at him and turning back to chat with her gaggle of chums.

However, not three seconds after being kissed by Dawn, Drew is now busy exchanging saliva with the red-haired girl with the side ponytail, who had just been talking with a spiky black-haired boy holding a professional video camera thing. Then, after ending the brief make-out session with a few quiet words dropped in the redhead's right ear, Drew is sauntering away with his entourage, which consists of a purple-haired mean looking boy who I recognize as Paul from my homeroom and a nastier looking auburn-haired teenager, who looked, despite his incredible hotness (almost rival to Drew's), somewhat queer.

What appalls me then is how Drew manages to exchange fervent kisses with the other blue-haired girl and not appearing the least bit suspicious despite the fact that he has just been making out with a girl not three yards away from where he was now. I think this is because of the fact that the three girls belonged in different 'clichés.' Stupid, really.

Drew swaggers past me without sparing me a glance. I feel deprived of something I needed to have, but shake the troubling thought away.

Lunch is dull, and consists of a plain cheeseburger and salad. Another one of Drew's dates, the other blue-haired girl, starts quite a riot during lunch, lamenting the loss of a vegetarian burger, and the lunch ladies give her another serving of salad to hush her up. What an effective system. Yes, surprisingly, I can be sarcastic when I want to. (I'm taking classes from Ruby. He's a really great teacher.)

P.E. class follows the lunching period. I want to stop and point out that it is not very good to exercise directly after a meal, but I don't. I stop and ask Ms. Rock where the gymnasium is, and she directs me to the correct room. Expectedly, the gym is on the first floor, so it's a simple matter of glancing at room numbers before I locate the correct room.

I step through the door and onto an even shinier wooden floor. Nearly tripping over my shoes again, I carefully maneuver myself to the large group of female students congested around something, presumably the teacher, since the majority of the girls were whining like dogs.

Annoyed, I wait for the crowd to dissipate, which takes a solid five minutes, and at last the teacher, who is a stout woman dressed in a large purple T-shirt and khaki shorts, blows the whistle she keeps wearing around her neck and directs the horde of discontent female students towards the bleachers. I find a seat near the front and sit down.

"Now, listen up y'all, Coach Brawly ain't feel all right today to give you girls yer lesson," The teacher barks, succeeding in silencing the lesser half of the students.

"But Brawly's _hot_," A girl whines in a high-pitched voice. I turn my head back, towards the direction of the complaint, and unsurprisingly discover the source to be Dawn, who is tugging her manicured fingers anguishly through her azure hair.

The female teacher apparently did not hear the comment, or at least she is pretending quite well that she did not hear the comment. She is shouting something at a group of rebellious girls who are all dressed in contrasting shades of black and red. Giving up after a few seconds, she takes a few steps back and begins barking more orders.

"Attendance time! Smithson, Lucy!" She shouts, and said girl waves her hand to signal her being there. She continues down the list, until she reaches my name, and she shouts, "Maple, Mary!"

"It's May. . ." I interject timidly, but she brushes me off and continues with checking our names.

"All right! You girls!" The teacher shouts loudly after blowing her whistle three times in a row, waving her pudgy hand towards the direction of the first section of the students on the bleachers, which includes me. I jump up obediently as she directs us towards one half of the gym, and I now notice that there is a volleyball net set up.

The red-haired girl I recognize as one of Drew's dates places herself several feet in front of my, talking in a low and secretive voice with one of her friends. Her words are drowned out, however, when a volleyball comes sailing over the net from the other side. I have a feeling that the red-haired girl could have easily caught the volleyball, if her athletic build was any indication, but she doesn't and it bounces away.

"I'll get it!" Dawn says cheerily, sauntering over to the unmoving sphere and picking it up, flaunting her rounded calves. My eyes twitch simultaneously. She straightens up showily and primly whacks the volleyball over the net.

The game continues in a lackadaisical manner. Nobody even keeps score. I don't mind, really—I'm not exactly competitive, and more likely than not, I'll be flattened if I were to enter in a contest of any sort.

However, somewhere nearing 'halftime' or whenever 'halftime' was in our sad excuse for a sports game, the redhead makes a show of saying in a voice perhaps a little louder than was usually excusable, "Oh my god, you won't _believe _who _I'm _dating, Mae," to a black-haired girl standing next to her. I look up, thinking that I've heard my name, though it wasn't I whom the redhead was addressing.

"Well, whoever it is, Misty, it better not be my brother," Mae states in reply, pushing her dark brown locks out of her muddy brown eyes.

"No, it's not _Gary_, of course, I could _never _date him after you told me his little secret," Misty laughs loudly, causing several heads to turn in her direction, including the small jerk of Dawn's. "I'm dating. . ." She pauses for dramatic effect, "Andrew Rosalind."

I sense danger. Grave danger.

Dawn's usually pale complexion turns an unnatural red, and she throws the volleyball, which she had previously been clutching, with all her force at Misty's head. The ball hit its mark, and the redhead gives a small cry of alarm before turning around and irritably eyeballing the blue-haired girl, who is giving Misty the sweetest smile I have ever seen anyone give anyone.

"Oh, sorry, I missed," Dawn says, batting her eyelids innocently. Misty rolls her light blue eyes in reply and mutters "cheerleaders" under her breath before returning to conversation with Mae. I don't continue eavesdropping on their conversation, though, as I am busy watching Dawn pick up the volleyball again and aim it at (you guessed it) Misty's head.

BAM!

"_Ouch!_" Misty shrieked, her voice piercing the entire gymnasium. There is dead silence as the redhead turns around, flinging her side ponytail out of her practically murderous gaze, and lock irate eyes with a just as angry Dawn, who has dropped her sweet façade. "What. Was. That. For."

"Excuse me, but _you're _not dating Drew Rosalind!" The azure-haired girl cries shrilly, her voice escalating dangerously.

"Oh _yes _I am!" Misty retorts, folding her arms over her somewhat flat chest.

"No you're not!" Dawn shrieks insanely, "Because _I _am!"

"Wha. . . what did you say?!" Misty shrieks back. "Stop lying, you little. . . you little. . ." She then barks a word Mom has told me never ever to call a fellow girl before, and then she adds a couple more choice insults.

"You did NOT just call me that!" Dawn shrieks in return, throwing herself at Misty. The two engage in a furious skirmish, which, considering the fact that they've probably never taken martial arts lessons of any sort, is quite impressive. The teacher blows her whistle multiple times, all to absolutely no avail.

The other blue-haired girl who wore her hair in two pigtails walks over slowly to the two fighting and swearing and kicking and biting girls, wearing a passive and positively peaceful expression on her tan face. "Stop fighting," She whispers, with unexpected strength dragging the two girls by the hair away from each other.

"But Marina! I have to kill this little—" Misty yells. I censor the next word. "She's a liar! A filthy liar!"

"I'm not the liar!" Dawn retaliates. "_You're _the liar, _I'm _dating Drew!"

From then on, things just turn from bad to worse.

Marina, the other blue-haired girl, releases her hold on the two girls, her own facial expression purpling splendidly. "WHAT?! _I'm _dating Drew!" She then leaps into the battle with unparalleled barbarianism and tears at the two other girls with her nastily sharp fingernails, though 'claws' would have been a more suitable term for describing the way she was slashing at Misty and Dawn.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I cry, unable to stand it any longer. Can't these girls not see the truth? It's as bright as day! "He's cheating on all of you! Can't you see it?"

"What the"—I censor the next word—"are you talking about, little girl?!" Marina yells, practically in my ear. But before I could react, or anyone else for that matter, the teacher hauls us away and blows the whistle approximately fourteen times before she has calmed down.

"Now. . . listen up, you four," She begins in a melodramatically low voice. "Detention for all of you. Starting tomorrow at four, after school." I open my mouth to protest this unfair arrangement, but the plump teacher cuts me off quickly with an swift wave of her hand. "I don't want to hear any complaints! The way you—all of you—acted was just so uncivilized! You're _girls, _damn it! So start acting like one! Your detention will be in room 304, so you better write that down in your agendas."

Saying that, the P.E. teacher walks away in a huff, muttering incoherent phrases under her breath. I turn to angrily survey Misty, Dawn, and Marina, who are all tomato-faced; I have a very good feeling that I am just as so. I start to think of something to say, but Dawn beats me to there. "What the heck? We got detention all because of _you, _little brunette girl," She hisses, staring pointedly at me. The other two girls nod in agreement, despite the fact that they have just been literally biting each other just a few moments ago.

"What? I was just trying to help you!" I hiss back, attempting my best not to explode with anger. I don't want to earn myself another detention, after all. Oh Arceus, I can't even begin to describe the injustice of my punishment.

"Help us? By giving us detentions?" Marina puts in, her eyes, one green and one blue, widening with rage and disbelief.

"Look! You were all arguing over who was dating Drew, right? Well, the answer is, Drew has been cheating on all of you at the same time!" I say, unable to stand it any longer.

"What the heck. _I'm _dating Drew, and that's final. These other girls are just imposters," Misty scoffs, turning her long nose distastefully and disapprovingly towards the ceiling. Dawn and Marina turn edgily towards her, and since I do not want to witness another fight, I try quickly to think of a way to distract them, but since I am somewhat on the slow side, I can't come up with an adequate explanation.

Thankfully, though, the three girls did not begin to fight. Dawn simply glared at Misty, Marina, and me, before declaring, "Whatever. We'll talk to you, like, later, at detention, and then we can get this whole fiasco sorted out. Whatever your name is, Mary or something."

"It's May—" I begin to correct, but Dawn is already leaving. Misty stirs, looking as if she had been intending to follow the blue-haired girl, but seeming to remember that they belonged in different social groups, waits until Dawn was out of site before proceeding after her. Marina follows suit after Misty disappears in the midst of the congregating crowd.

The bell rings, and I stare at it for a few moments before sighing and beginning to wearily head for the exit of the gymnasium. I resign myself to more phone calls with Ruby and watching more Red Sox games, all the while thinking of what I could possibly do to convince the three girls that Drew was the evil one here.

**Author's Notes:**

**So. Hoped you liked. Remember, this chapter will be polished up later, so. . . if you spot any mistakes, please inform me of it ASAP. Though be warned, I've been known to forget to edit errors, so please don't take it personally or anything if I don't correct a mistake you spot immediately.**

**I'm sorry it sounded a little rushed. . . but I was in a big hurry to get this chapter up so yeah. . .**

**Next scene is the infamous DETENTION SCENE. :o And 'member, more reviews more interest faster updates.**


	3. Science, Chemistry, and Detention

**First of all, I have to say: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS! Omg! Seriously. Though 37 reviews may not seem like a lot to some people, it means a LOT to me. ;;**

**-checks to make sure that story is rated T- okay, good, it is. This chapter is a bit long, by the way.**

**Anyway. If you've seen JTMD, you'll notice some differences in this chapter from the actual movie. . . because. . . I have my reasons! . . . you'll find out soon enough, anyway. But if you haven't seen the movie, please just ignore this paragraph and have a (hopefully) lovely reading experience.**

**Disclaimer: For the third time, I DON'T OWN POKEMON. -weeps-  
Dedicated To: Neden-Candy, for being an awesome person and author!  
Thanks To: Arc Knight for beta'ing the story. . . as usual.**

**Drew Rosalind Must****Die  
****CHAPTER THREE: Science, Chemistry, and Detention****  
**An AU Pokémon Fanfic by Galbinus-Rayquaza

"Have to. . . tell. . . Ruby," I gasp, bursting into the house and slamming the door behind myself, startling a befuddled-looking Max out of his reading session ('Atoms' by Professor something-or-other; typical). Rivulets of sweat drip down the sides of my flushed cheeks, but I don't care; sprinting across the carpeted floor, I dash up the stairs and barge into my room.

I tear off the tape off of one of the cardboard boxes lying conspicuously to the right side of the door, pull out a dust-covered laptop, and hastily plug the adapter into the outlet some inches to the right of my cream-colored computer table. With shaky, gloved fingers, I hurriedly push up the screen and turn on the power of my laptop, waiting impatiently for the slow thing to load.

Four frustrating minutes later, I decide that my computer is all ready for use and double click on the Internet Explorer icon. A window pops out on the screen, and I quickly head to my yahoo account, logging in as 'soxrulesyorkersdrool'—making a mental note that since I am already such an acknowledged Red Sox fan, I should learn the team's lineup—and click on a blue link that reads 'compose', setting the 'to' part to Brendan's email address. I then spend the next hour typing in an angry, ranting letter. . .

Approximately sixty minutes later, I sit down, contented that I have finished what I have set out to do, only to plop my behind very uncomfortably on the hard wooden ground. Wincing with pain, I make another mental note to make sure to seat myself before I begin typing another rant letter. Then, with all the pride of an artist revealing her masterpiece, I press 'send'.

After confirming that my email went through, I smile, satisfied, and bounce out my door down the stairs to the inevitable dinner.

**l a t e r**

I wake up to the blaring of my alarm clock. Clamping one hand firmly over the ear closest to said ringing instrument, I slam my free hand over the top of the cherry-red clock and reluctantly pull myself out of bed, nearly smashing my face into the bedside counter as I do so.

My stomach plummets as I realize what I have to face today. Ugh, detention. . . I have never been to detention before, except for if that time counted when Ruby brought in a very ugly fish for show-and-tell in kindergarten in Tokyo and I flipped out when it splashed me with water when I peered over the rim of the aquarium and knocked down the water bowl and smashed it into lots of little pieces and nearly killed the fish and got sent to the 'shame corner' for 'disrupting class'.

But anyway.

Plodding over to my closet, I open it and pull out a clean set of my usual clothes. After changing, I amble tiredly to the bathroom and run through my usual cleansing routine before rubbing my face on my red towel.

Things continue normally—very similar to yesterday, in any case—until when I seat myself on my usual seat on the yellow school bus, the same brunette girl I followed out the yellow vehicle seats herself next to me, a radiant smile upon her thin face. I gawk inwardly at her, outward face forced into a somewhat sheepish grin, wondering why she would choose to sit by me, a grade-A loser. Then I realize that it is perhaps that there are no more seats left on the bus.

"Hi! My name's Turquoise Leaf, but you can just call me Turquoise. Or Leaf. Or Turkey. Whichever you prefer," Turquoise beams at me, extending a hand for me to shake.

She is the second person who has attempted to be nice to me in school—if the bus counts as part of school—and so I decide to shake her hand, which I do. Though despite her initial burst of cordiality Turquoise makes no further attempt to socialize, and I, being the rather humble and shy girl that I am, don't do so either. However, I subconsciously recognize the girl as an alley and a potential friend.

When we arrive at school, I promptly walk off the bus and begin meandering my way through the jostling crowd of students, having my foot stepped on twice by different people. I think I see Drew's mass of shiny celadon hair, but then someone really tall with auburn hair passes by me, stepping on my foot as well, and startling me out of my temporary reverie. Ick, why was I even looking at him in the first place?

After making my way into my second-floor classroom, I decide to open the new Geometry textbook Ms. Rock—who was also my math teacher—gave to us. Flicking open the heavy, hard covered book, my sapphire eyes widen in terror. Oh, dear lord. I can't understand a single phrase of this jargon. Better put it back in my fanny pack and worry about the Pythagorean theorem later tonight. . . or five minutes before the class I'm supposed to turn in my first article of math homework.

"All right, attention everyone!" Ms. Rock says loudly as she strides into the room, raising her voice over the chatter of the students and the various pitched squeals of Dawn Ikari. "I have a few announcements to make today, and some of them are quite important, so do keep your ears tuned in."

I idly doodle on a spare sheet of notebook paper, drawing a Skitty batting at a Beautifly.

"Cheerleader tryouts are tomorrow during lunchtime," Ms. Rock begins. If I had bothered to look up at the time, I would have noticed that almost all of the girls in my class—save for the orange-haired tomboyish friend of Dawn's and a couple other less bubbly-looking females—are listening with rapt attention. "If you wish to become a cheerleader, you must show up at the gymnasium as soon as you are done with your lunch. Boy basketball tryouts for four people are also tomorrow during lunchtime, which are to be carried out simultaneously with the cheerleader tr—"

"Ms. Rock! Ms. Rock!" A blond boy interjects, his hand shooting up into the air faster than a rocket. I recognize him vaguely as Tyson. The teacher stops in the middle of her speech to survey the boy with a somewhat irritated expression etched into the few lines of her young face.

"What is it, Mr. Haste?" She asks severely. I am impressed that she is able to remember his name after only one class with him; then again, he is somewhat memorable, and Ms. Rock is perhaps the opposite of an idiot. It is then that I realize the vast differences between my teacher and me.

"How come there's only four positions open for the basketball team?" Tyson asks, his eyes, one green and one blue, widening as his voice begins a grand crescendo. In fact, he even stands up to emphasize his urgency and point. Even I feel that his actions are a little unnessecary, but that is only because he is, although not very tall, blocking a good section of the light for my doodles. "There's normally five, right?"

Ms. Rock blinks, as if she did not expect this to be Tyson's question. However, she continues with an equally matter-of-fact tone, "Mr. Haste, please do take a seat." Tyson does so, plopping noisily back on his wooden chair and causing it to make a rather nasty grating sound against the tiled floor, which several people cringe at. "As for answering your first question, there are only four available positions because Andrew Rosalind is already occupying one of them, which I believe is the center forward or something of the sort."

Many girls start giggling when Ms. Rock mentions Drew's name; I frown, since their laughter is interrupting my doodle session. Tyson ogles the teacher, dumbfound and more likely than not wondering who the heck Andrew Rosalind was—I don't blame him, since from what I remember, he is also a first year here at Oak High. However, Dawn suddenly whips around in her seat to patronizingly scrutinize Tyson, wearing the expression that one might wear when examining a mentally challenged person.

"Ty! Don't cha remember what I told you about Drew? You know, _my_ _boyfriend?_" Dawn hisses loudly, raising her voice to a half-shout at the last word. People, not only girls, begin to murmur at her words.

"Uh. . . no, sorry Dawn," Tyson says apologetically, scooting away on his seat, obviously fearful for his own mortality. Again, I can't blame him—Dawn is wearing a practically murderous expression. "I—I guess I was too busy doing something else or something. . . like, playing Pokemon Pearl. . ." At the mention of the Pokemon game, my ears perk up.

Dawn looks as if she were about to make some snappy, defensive retort, but at that moment Ms. Rock steps in, speaking with such finality that nobody dares question here. "Enough of this chitchat. I still have some more things to explain."

**l a t e r**

"Hey, Mary, is it? Wake up, wake up! Geometry ended, it's time for Science now!" A feminine voice hisses in my ear. Groggily, I lift my head up from the back of my hands, the entire section of arm higher than my elbows feeling numb and senseless. Then, as I yawn, I realize the content of her words, and immediately feel new energy rush through my veins.

I bounce up from my seat, just as the last of the students exit. The person who woke me up, the same girl, Turquoise, I sat next to on my bus, impatiently beckons me towards the door with a white-gloved hand. Avoiding eye contact with Ms. Rock, I hurry towards Turquoise, who leaves the room in a whirl of layered brown hair, tightening the strap of my yellow fanny pack as I do so.

Stepping into the crowded hallway, I pull out my schedule and skim over it, noting that Science class with Mr. Stone is on the first floor in room 103, which, I remember, is conveniently located next to the cafeteria, which is my next 'class'. Happily, I almost saunter downstairs with visions of meeting Mr. Stone for the second time occupying my mind, but when I near the bottom somebody knocks me with a rough jab in the side. I only barely catch myself in time—it would have been embarrassing and doubly painful if I had toppled forwards.

Flushing a brilliant crimson, I try to ignore my beating heart as I turn around to find the person who knocked me over, and my breath catches in my throat as Drew, in all his green-hair glory, swaggers past, not even sparing me an apologetic glance. Heck, not even a _distasteful _glance. Seriously, what is this guy's problem? Ugh, oh great, now he's flicking his hair in that 'I'm-so-much-better-than-you-it's-not-even-funny' and three—no, wait, four—girls have swooned and nearly faint. Huh.

Shrugging the disquieting thought away, my insides turn as I remember the detention I have after school. Oh god, and I haven't even informed mom or Max of the whole affair. Eep. My memory is really, truly, dreadfully porous. I only hope that mother won't get too angry with me when I show up an hour late—goodness knows that she might faint then.

To cheer myself up, I check my schedule again, and note that the last class of the day is Chemistry. Perking up, I continue walking and stride into the Science classroom.

The first thing that I notice is the vast collections of colorful stones, displayed in various glass containers for people to look at. Obviously, however, it is not intended to be touched. I know this because there are large signs posted on each glass container that read 'DO NOT TOUCH.' in bold red. The 'NOT's are underlined twice. I wonder what happened that made Mr. Stone want to take such precautions. . . in fact, if I squint, I think that I can see a tiny video camera in the sides of each glass container display.

The next thing I notice is Mr. Stone himself. He is walking around the room, garbed still in that rakish dark tuxedo, looking at his stone collections as if they are his own children. Kids are streaming into the classroom, looking about themselves and probably wondering if they have just stepped inside a museum-slash-laboratory. Hesitantly, I seat myself at a nearby desk and notice that Turquoise is seated right across from me. She shoots me a smile that looks more like a grimace, and we wait for the whole class to settle down.

I notice forlornly that Dawn is also in my Science class. She is staring at Mr. Stone with a mixture of reverence and what is obvious infatuation. However, she suddenly shakes her head as if remembering that she has a 'boyfriend', and begins talking with Zoey again, who is in the act of adjusting her iPod earphones and nods.

Finally, when everyone is seated, Mr. Stone clears his throat formally, runs a hand through his mass of silvery-gray hair, and begins speaking in a deep, rumbling voice. Zoey quickly takes the earphones out of her ears. "Welcome to Science class. My name, as you may know already, is Mr. Stone," He says formally. A few girls giggle; he frowns, and continues his speech, which has the air of one given over many years, "This semester we are studying geology." He pauses. "Who can tell me what geology is?"

I suspect that the question is more of a vague intelligence question than anything else. But since I'm not really sure of the answer, I wait for someone else to answer.

After a few long seconds, a blue-haired boy who I identify as Lucas—Dawn's brother or something like that—slowly lifts his thin arm into the air. His beret is lopsided as he is trembling so much; the boy is the very definition of 'nervous.'

Mr. Stone nods at the blue-haired boy, who then begins speaking in a very fast voice as if he were afraid that he might forget what he was saying if he kept it inside for so long. "Geology is the science and study of the solid matter of Earth, including but not limited to its composition, structure, physical properties, history, and the processes and natures of the processes that shape the Earth into what it is today."

Dawn gawks at her brother, then turns away sniveling slightly, as if she were embarrassed that she were related to a 'nerd', as one might stereotypically define Lucas. Personally, he reminds me a little of Ruby. Also personally, I am awed by the fact that Dawn is related to someone whose I.Q. points are not negative like her own. No offense meant to Dawn or anything, of course; I'm just a little angry that she is partially responsible for getting me into detention.

The teacher, though, is quite impressed by the blue-haired boy. "Very good, very good. Anyway, yes, Mr.," At this point, Mr. Stone shoots Lucas a quizzical glance. He hurriedly gives his surname, and Mr. Stone continues, "Ikari was correct. Now, let us proceed. . ."

**l a t e r**

Chemistry class—without a doubt, my favorite class of all.

I leap out of my seat as soon as the bell rings, signifying the end of Language Arts class. Barging out of the door before anyone else, I streak down the halls and promenade downstairs in a run, taking care _not _to crash into anyone, though I half-miss the fragrant minty smell of Drew's cologne. Yup, I'm definitely going insane.

"Let's see. . . Chemistry class in room 102," I say to myself, ambling through the hallways. Amazingly, though I don't look upwards, I don't bump into anyone else, either.

Locating the correct door, I walk inside and look around myself. There are tubes of all different sizes and shapes laid neatly out on each of the high tables, and liquids of even odder colors fill each tube to the top. Students are crowded around a table, seemingly with no tubes on it, and I curiously walk over to see what they are looking at. It turns out that they're taking a pair of goggles each, and deciding that I may as well help myself, I grab one that didn't look too shabby and quickly wear it around my bandana.

Looking around myself again, I try to find a seat for myself, but unfortunately, it seems as if everyone already has a companion. Turquoise is already teamed up with an extremely attractive red-haired boy, who wears a perpetually bored—but in an extremely hot way—expression; I can't help but think that if only he had green hair. . . wait a second. . .

Sighing, I look away from the two. I guess that I must be so repellent I can't even make a friend. Sighing again, I feel my spirits rise as the teacher, a thin man wearing glasses, walks in through the doorway.

"Excuse me, Mr.,"—I glance down at my schedule—"Elm, but I don't have a partner. . .?"

He turns his warm brown gaze at me. "Ah, new student, I suppose? I haven't seen you from around these parts. You're a freshman, correct?"

"Yes," I say, nearly breathing a sigh of relief. At least the teachers weren't so bad. "My name's May Maple, and yes, I'm new here. Could you maybe help find me a partner or something. . .?"

"Please address me as Professor Elm, oh, and sure thing, Mary," Professor Elm says, walking over to the teacher's desk and pulling out what looks like a name list of the students. Oh, well; some things never change, no matter which school I go to. "Hmm. . . luckily for you, this class has an even amount of people, but I suppose that some kids are late today."

"Yeah," I agree uncertainly. Just then, a boy with green hair bursts in through the doorway. Wait—green hair?! _Green _hair?! As in, Drew Rosalind's green hair?! My interest is immediately piqued, I turn my head towards the direction of the boy, and feel my spirits plunge as quickly as it had ascended. His hair is not Drew's shade of grass-green, but rather a shade of green-yellow, and, although he was thin, he lacked Drew's handsome leanness.

"Ah, Wally, you're late again," Professor Elm chastises the boy, though not coldly, and beckons for him to come. I watch as his porcelain complexion turns an embarrassed shade of hot pink, but he comes to the teacher all the same, fidgeting with the hems of his long white shirt.

"I'm sorry, Professor Elm! I really am! It's just that I had to get fetch Drew's notebooks for him and he's all the way on the third floor and then I had an asthma attack and then I had to go to the nurse and then I tripped over my sneakers on the way over here and then—" Wally squeaks in a nervous high-pitched voice.

Professor Elm waves his hand, cutting off the teenager. "That's enough, Wally; you're excused for this time." Pausing, he then turns his gaze towards me. "Hmm. . . since Ash appears to be absent today, why don't you pair up with Miss Maple over here until he gets back?"

"O—okay!" Wally agrees, somewhat nervously. Professor Elm nods satisfyingly and waves us off to the table furthest in the back. With a hesitant glance towards the direction of the fidgety blonde-green-haired boy, I follow him as he walks to the correct desk.

I fling my fanny pack over the back of the desk and look towards Wally, who does the same with his light green backpack. "So, um, what do we do?" I ask dully. Everyone else seems to know what they're doing, but I am clearly missing out on something.

"I guess we do what the piece of paper tells us to," Wally deadpans, pointing towards a piece of paper on the table in front of the chemistry tube set. Feeling stupid, I nod in agreement and take it from the table, scanning through the instructions.

_Hm. . . this isn't really too difficult,_ I muse. It was rather simple, actually, for a high school chemistry course. I hand the piece of paper over to Wally, and for the briefest of moments, my pinky trails across the back of his right hand—oh god, his hand is so cold—and I inhale a short whiff of his scent—he smells like crushed pine needles, which is, in my opinion, a very nice smell.

Wally blushes and quickly takes his hand away. I look at him for a moment; normally, if I had accidentally touched another boy, he would just look disgusted for a moment and then proceed on to what he's doing but Wally—Wally is actually acting—as if—I had affected him in an un-bad way. Contemplatively, I continue staring at him as he scans the instructions, and I get the feeling that he is deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.

"Sorry, um, wait, what's your name again?" Wally asks me; his golden gaze meets mine for a few seconds—I am instantly reminded of two miniature suns—but then he looks away.

"_May_," I answer, knowing that even emphasizing the correct pronunciation of my name isn't going to improve matters much.

"Oh, o-okay then, May," Wally says, stuttering slightly. I am slightly fazed by the fact that he actually said my name correctly. "I don't really get this, so c-could you maybe help me?"

"Sure!" I say, flashing him my most brilliant, toothy smile—which is probably what I'd do to anyone who pronounced my name right. He flushes a darker shade of red, and I, feeling inexplicably powerful, begin explaining the chemical process to him, though judging by the fact that he is constantly staring at my face—though avoiding my eyes—I wonder if he's listening to me or not or if he's just looking at me; though why he'd choose to do the latter, I can't fathom.

**l a t e r**

The bell rings, signaling the end of school.

As the happy jostling students swirl around me, I can only sigh in defeat. Oh, great. . . it's detention time. . . with the absolutely _loveliest _girls in the world. I snort, though I'm slightly impressed by my own effective utilization of sarcasm.

Room 304—room 304—room 304—

Wearily climbing up the stairs, I find the room, which is deserted, only to find a note on the teacher's desk that reads, "Go down to the library. You will do some filing work for the librarian, today, tomorrow, and for the rest of this week." Oh, great. I hate filing, or organizing anything for that matter. Oh, just wonderful—I forgot to tell mom that I had detention today, but hopefully she'll be too pooped out tonight to notice; I don't have to worry about Max, as he is usually too busy reading something or another.

Wearily trudging down the stairs again, I wander around in the school for a few minutes, somewhat lost though very welcome to accept any excuse that will postpone the confrontation hour with the three girls. Finally, when I can wait no longer, I walk into the library, where a long-nosed librarian directs me to the back of the library.

I notice sullenly that Dawn, Marina, and Misty are already there. Though they've been here for at least ten minutes, they haven't gotten any filing work done. As I approach them, they turn toward me, all three wearing equally nasty expressions, and they cross their arms over their chests when I finally pull to a stop in front of them.

"Oh, hello _Mary_. How nice to see _you _here," Marina says in a voice that says that seeing me is not 'nice' at all. A sneer distorts her otherwise perfectly formed facial features.

"Didn't think _you'd _show up," Dawn sneers.

"You're _late_," Misty sneers.

Well, I have to admit that they're pretty good at sneering. Me, I've personally never had much luck with forming facial expressions. Everyone assumes I'm delirious every time I try to smirk, and I can't exactly blame them.

"Sorry," I squeak, hurriedly unclipping my fanny pack and laying it on a blue table so that it won't bump into nearby chairs and books when I'm filing the books. I notice that there are three backpacks already on the table—one is pink and flat, most likely Dawn's; one is a bright blue and has pictures of capes and various celebrities on it, including the famous actor Lance Dragonclaw, who is also a master fencer, which is probably Marina's; and the last one, which is probably Misty's, is sea-green with photographs of fish and other oceanic life sown onto it, as well as somewhat random images, including a compass and a pawn, the chess piece.

"Yeah, you _better _be," Misty comments angrily, "I'm missing a make-out session with Drew _and _two very important meetings of the Geometry and Chess Clubs."

I had been gathering several dictionaries in my arms when Misty had been talking. Hearing her words—Misty didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent type, but, well, looks are deceiving—I drop the books and they clatter across the floor noisily. The long-nosed librarian peers around the corner of a long row of books, flashes the four of us a disapproving expression that made her look distinctly similar to a grey-hound, and stalks away.

Dawn's face is steadily purpling. Marina's is steadily purpling as well. They look almost like siblings, though Marina is a good deal curvier than Dawn. Fortunately for me, they're not looking at me, but rather staring at Misty, who is irritably retying her orange side-ponytail.

"Well, _I _talked to Drew," Marina begins, somewhat snottily, "and he told me that he feels bad for you two losers because you're jealous of what we have!"

Dawn stops sneering at Misty and turns to Marina, an angry and perplexed expression replacing pure rage. "Weird, because that's what he said to me. . ."

"Hmph!" Misty scoffs, finishing tying her ponytail and wearing a practically smug expression on her tan face. "Drew told me that what we had was so special that—"

"It didn't need a label?!"

"It didn't need a label?!"

"It didn't need a label!"

I blink and look at the three girls. They are rapidly blanching. Though they may not exactly be the sharpest tacks in the drawers—save for perhaps Misty, but she might have used other methods to boost her way to the top of the intellectuals—it didn't take them too long to put two and two together. An awkward silence ensues, which is interrupted by the librarian's impatient yell of, "Get back to work!"

"Wait, let me guess," I begin, bending down to pick up the dictionaries I've dropped, while Misty, Marina, and Dawn are still wallowing in their shock, "He told you all that he couldn't have a girlfriend for some reason or another—a plausible"—I mentally congratulate myself for being able to use the 'smart' word so well; today it's sarcasm and tough vocabulary, perhaps tomorrow I'll have a stab at irony—"'explanation' would be that it's basketball season and his father didn't want him 'distracted' from the sport. Which is why you all had to keep it a secret."

Incredulousness succeeds the disbelief on the three tricked girls' faces, and simultaneously, their jaws drop open. I wish I have a camera—I want to capture this moment forever, of the three most popular girls in school (and though I've only been in Oak High for two days, this piece of information is rather obvious) 'out of grace'.

"Oh, pleasedon't tell me that you'redating him too, Mary," Dawn moans, the first one to break out of her stupor.

"No, I'm not," I reply hurriedly, so as to not create even more confusion. I didn't want to get the living daylights beaten out of me, either. "I just. . . know a lot of guys like him," I amend, thinking of the various Skips Mom's dated over the years.

"Well, just great," Marina says down-heartedly, "We've all been tricked. Well, at least I didn't lose my vir—"

"Shut up, Marina!" Misty suddenly shouts, startling us slightly. "The librarian could be listening in!"

At her warning words, Dawn, Marina, and I look about in different directions to ensure that said long-nosed woman wasn't eavesdropping on us. When she had confirmed that the librarian was not, Marina continued anyways, "Oh, don't worry, Misty; sheesh, you're always so. . . ugh. . . _uptight_. I was onlygoing to say that I didn't lose my virginity to _him_."

I don't like the way she said 'to _him_', but I don't comment. Though Marina may look only a pretty face, I know that she's probably concealing inner strength underneath her showy outfit, which consists of a tight tank top that flaunts her every curve and a long-sleeved collared jacket—which she keeps only buttoned once—that flaunts her tank top. Instead, I busy myself with stuffing the dictionaries in their correct spot on the shelf. Then I notice that I stuffed them in the wrong shelf. Annoyed, I take them out again and start relocating the right spot.

"So what do you think we should do, Mary?" Dawn asks, her tone revealing absolutely nothing, though I suspect that she may be suppressing amazement at my seeming 'experience' (of course, this is all hypothetical). A bit taken aback that the cheerleader was actually asking me a question, I take a few moments to think of a good response.

"Get even, somehow," I answer, somewhat lamely.

"What do you mean, _somehow?_" Misty demands sharply, grabbing a large pile of thesauruses from a nearby table and shoving it into a nearby shelf. I hope that she checked that she was shoving the books into the correct shelf.

"I don't know—just—do something bad to him," I finish, biting my tongue in self-disappointment. After locating the correct shelf, I push my dictionaries into their correct spots. Then, dusting my hand, I turn around to face the three girls, who are all staring expectantly at me. "Any suggestions?" I attempt, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug while blood flowed back into my hands.

Dawn purses her lips; Misty rolls her eyes; Marina grabs a couple of sci-fi novels and squeezes them between two books already on the shelf. I hope that she checked that she was putting them in the right shelf, but given her slightly ditzy outlook on life, I have a feeling that this action was randomized.

"Hmm," Misty murmurs thoughtfully while lackadaisically filing a couple of books, "I suppose that if we, ah, joined forces, we'd pose much bigger of a threat to Andrew Rosalind than any individual."

I'm not entirely sure what Misty means by her words, but she is looking quite war-like, and Dawn and Marina are wearing similar expressions. Oh, dear lord. . . I have a very bad feeling about this. Whatever each girl is thinking, I'm ready to bet my Wii—which I bought for the sole purpose of playing Pokemon 'Battle Revolution'— that it's nothing good. I quickly chastise myself—all they're trying to do is to get back at Drew, who _has _been cheating on all of them at the same time! If I am them, I'd be barking mad by now; and I did, I really did feel for them. I hate players

But what were the chances of Dawn and Marina, two girls from polar opposite cliques (with Misty being the equator), agreeing to the orange-haired girl's proposal—?

"I'm in," Dawn declares, fire burning in her eyes. Figuratively, of course. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out two hot pink pompoms, waving them energetically in the air. I back away for fear of being hit in the eye by one of the strands. Misty smirks at Dawn's gesture, and I get the distinct feeling that she doesn't like cheerleaders, or anything quite so pink.

"So am I," Marina says firmly, more oblivious to Dawn's feminine ways than Misty or I.

Oh. . . so maybe I was wrong.

Misty cracks a rare smile, and the three girls turn towards me, looking as if they were waiting for me to agree. But—did I really know what I was getting myself into? Perhaps I should think it all through, calculate my chances of survival in the girls' would-be plot, before leaping to a conclusion. However, my somewhat slow brain is unable to plow through my current choices, and the smell of paper in the library was slowly tearing a hole through my brain.

"I guess. . . I'm in as well," I mutter hesitantly. Dawn beams at me, and I'm glad that she doesn't hold grudges for so long.

The orange-haired girl cracks a rare but cryptic smile, and begins shuffling importantly in her turquoise backpack. Curious, I peer over her shoulder to see what she's doing, but before I could identify the myriad items now spread across the table, Misty whips around. A video camera dangles from one hand, and I wonder how she's able to handle such a delicate piece of equipment so casually, and a notepad and a blue ballpoint pen dangles from the other.

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at the writing instrument, and I have a feeling that she has not touched one for weeks. Marina, too, looks relatively baffled. I've a vague notion what Misty's intention is, but she leaps to the point before I could ask her.

"All right, listen up, you lot," Misty says bossily, somewhat flamboyantly sauntering toward a whiteboard-on-wheels in the back of the library. Marina, Dawn, and I shuffle over to see what she's doing. "Since I'm obviously the most talented and responsible person in our group, I'm obviously the best candidate for leadership, so I'll be heading our operation." Before any of us can object, she picks up a whiteboard marker from a nearby table and begins scribbling on the whiteboard. "And since I'm the leader, I'm going to call our operation 'Operation Drew Rosalind Must Die', or just 'D.R.M.D.' Got that, punks?"

Marina, seemingly unable to contain herself, bursts out, "Hey! Who made _you_ the leader? If anyone, I think I should be the leader of this group! I've had plenty of experience with volunteering at homeless shelters and pounds, so obviously I should be—"

"Shut up!" Misty screeches. I clamp my hands over my ears to prevent them from prematurely deafening, and the orange-haired girl flashes me a distasteful glare. "Hello? _I'm _obviously the best leader! Look at me!"—and as if to emphasize her point, she pulls herself to her full height, which is actually an inch shorter than Marina, though she's at least half a foot taller than Dawn and me—"I'm the leader of the Chess, Geometry, Algebra, Geography, History, Language Ar—"

"Wait a sec!" Dawn interrupts, throwing her pom-poms up in the air to halt Marina and Misty's argument, "If we're talking about leadership here, I think I should be leader, since, well, as you all know, I'm the head cheerleader."

"What?!" Misty shrieks. Okay, there's _no _way the librarian didn't hear that. Worried, I look around for any sign of the long-nosed lady. "You and your stupid group of cheerleaders! All you do is jump around all day and yell stupid rhymes to anyone who can hear you! You call _that _leadersh—"

"Girls, girls," I interject, alarmed. This is going to be a lot harder than I anticipated; these three are ostensibly the worst threesome, cooperativeness-wise, that anyone could put together. Couple that with the fact that they all seem to act as if they were on their PMS, with the 'P' standing for 'Permanent,' and you've got a perfect recipe for disaster. They stop in their wrangle to huffily face me. "Carry on like that and you're going to deafen everyone within a mile radius! Seriously, can't we discuss who should be the leader later?"

Misty, Dawn, and Marina exchange looks of equally intense dislike with each other. I bite my tongue, hoping that they will agree to cooperate.

"Fine," Dawn mutters grudgingly, picking up a novel from a table and practically throwing it into a vacant spot in a nearby shelf. The other two girls nod slowly, signaling their consent, albeit very reluctant. "But we're going to pick a leader, right?" She says, looking at me hopefully.

"Umm," I say, stopping short. To be honest, I think that I'm the best suited for leadership of us four, though according to Max, I have the temper of a dragon. Well, little brothers are bound to be biased. However, I decide not to voice my true view on the matter, as I don't want to spark another angry fight. The last one resulted in four detentions, in any case. "Sure."

The rest of the detention passes rather dully compared to the first fifteen minutes. I drop my books only twice, and it landed on Marina's foot only once, and I had to remind her that she was lucky she wasn't wearing sandals only once, and I had to dodge an angry swipe at my face only once. However, true to her word, the librarian frees us from our hell after forty-five more minutes.

"You are dismissed," She sniffs, daintily waving her hand to shoo us away. My spirits elevating considerably, I grab my fanny pack and strap it around my waist, while Misty, Dawn, and Marina do the same.

On our way out of the library, Misty suddenly stops in her tracks and turns to the rest of us. Confused, we stop as well.

"Hey, Mary, where do you live?" Misty demands out-of-the-blue. Perplexed, I eyeball her for a few moments, wondering if everyone at Oak High knew where everyone else lived. Deciding in the end that it would be unwise to incur Misty's wrath, I answer her.

"Umm. . . 137 Littleroot Street. You know, it's kind of in the suburbs," I reply, somewhat hesitantly.

"Good. Good," Misty murmurs, a faraway look glazing her green-blue eyes. A few moments later, as we step outside of the school, Dawn and Marina veer off course while Misty keeps walking. I'm a little confused, and it suddenly strikes me that I have no mode of transportation whatsoever.

I weigh my chances of asking Misty to take me back home, but before I can do so, she is already opening a car door of a large SUV—undoubtedly her parents' car—and is seating herself inside. Without so much as a backward glance at me, she shuts the door and is speeding off. Now positively scared, I look at Marina and Dawn, but they are nowhere in sight.

Oh, this is just marvelous.

"Shoot," I grumble to myself, and kick my left shin with the heel of my right sneaker. Why didn't I tell mom? This seriously sucks. Great, now I have to go back inside and tell the librarian that I can't get home, but I have the oddest feeling that she's probably just going to brush me away, which, given our behavior during detention, is a likely possibility.

Just when it seems as if I'm screwed for the day, a familiar mop of green-blonde hair surfaces from behind one of the few cars in the near-vacant front yard of the school. Wally! My heart leaps to my throat—perhaps all is not lost for the day?

Hurriedly, I rush towards the small gray convertible that Wally has just exited. It seems as if he had been looking for me, because his usually frightened expression splits into a wide grin as he sees me near him, and he beckons for me with his right hand.

"Hi, Wally," I say, out-of-breath as I pull to a stop in front of himself. I am aware of his gaze scrutinizing my face, and, somewhat embarrassed, I look at my sneakers. Urging myself to meet his gaze, my heart plunges to the pit of my stomach and settles somewhere near my liver. I had forgotten what an impressive shade of gold his eyes were.

"Hey, May." Wally says, looking concerned. I attempt a smile in reply. He looks around, as if expecting someone else. "Wait, do you need a lift home? Because I was staying after school to do some research for my overdue Language Arts summer project, and I was wondering, you know, I mean, you don't _have _to come with me if you don't want to,"—here he resumes an almost ashamed expression, and his cheeks redden—"I mean, you probably already have someone to take you home, and, I mean, I only got my driver's license two months ago, and—"

"Thanks, Wally!" I beam, and a part of me is somewhat flattered that I'm able to make him stutter as such, though I still wonder why he's actually stuttering. "I'll explain everything on the ride."

Wally smiles at me—a real, true, genuine smile—and actually opens the door to let me in. I haven't felt like an actual female human in so long, and only gladly step inside.

Ruby doesn't have to immediately reply to my email.

**A/N:**

**NOTE: Lucas's short definition there is almost copied word-for-word from en (dot) wikipedia (dot) org (slash) wiki (slash) Geology. So there! NOT plagiarism. Heh.**

**So. I really **_**don't **_**like this chapter, but I'm forcing myself to keep it up because I don't want to retype it. I just hope that it's not as crappy as I think it is. But please have a look at it anyway, and perhaps leave a review. Drew doesn't make a very significant appearance in this chapter. . . I'm so sorry! I just—kept—getting—distracted—! But I assure you that he'll play a much larger part in the next chapter.**

**Well. For those of you who've watched JTMD, you'll probably be able to guess who Wally plays. And I have a question for those of you who have watched JTMD: should I or shouldn't I give Wally the same 'role' that he 'has' in the movie? Personally, I'm not a big fan of Newrivalshipping, but I don't want to stray too****much from the actual movie. Yup, it's a bother. But if you haven't watched the movie, ignore this part, please. (and btw, on no account am I going to make Wally evil!)**

**The ending's rushed, I know, and most of this chapter was insignificant blabber, but I suppose I have a tendency to over-describe useless aspects of the fic. -sigh- Hopefully this habit will correct itself with time.**

**Enough of my insipid ranting! Tell me your suggestions/comments/criticisms in your review!**


	4. Beginning of a Conspiracy

-dies- 53 reviews?!?! I don't deserve this. THANK. YOU. GUYS. SO. MUCH! ROCK ON!

**Dedicated To:** Arc Knight! (again?) for continuously being an awesome beta. He is awesome. Go read and review his hilarious fics. NOW. (well, after you R&R this one. . . heheh. I am such a hypocrite.)  
**Thanks To: **Arc Knight for being the awesome beta of this story!  
**Warnings: **Suggestive humor (please don't be offended by it D:); and attempted humor. (man, I hope I don't appear vulgar. . .)

Without further ado, let the chapter commence!

**Drew Rosalind Must Die  
****CHAPTER FOUR: Beginning of a Conspiracy  
**An Alternate-Universe Pokemon Fanfic by Galbinus

The car ride back home is not boring at all—though he emanates a coy aura, Wally is actually quite hilarious. Then again, I reckon that I must be easy to please. . . or perhaps someone entertaining me is such a rare thing that I laugh at anything he says. Twice, we are so carried away in our jokes that we nearly crash into other people, and once we rushed a red light out of sheer lack of observation.

At last, Wally pulls to a stop in front of my house. Flushing red from laughing at some joke or another, I open the car door and step outside. As the cool evening air rushes into my lungs, clearing my mind, I realize just how late I must be and all the blood drains from my face.

"Crud!" I exclaim, hurriedly fastening my fanny pack around my waist. Wally, who has also come out of his car, raises an eyebrow. Turning apologetically towards the green-blonde, I say as quickly as I can, "I had a wonderful, er, time with you, but I really have to go home now, so. . . see you later!"

Hoping that I don't appear to hasty, I flash him a smile and scuffle back to my house, feeling heat slowly returning to my face. Walking up the concrete steps leading to the small flat, I tentatively push open the door and close it, as quietly as possible, behind myself.

To my horror, I discover Mom and Max already seated at the dining table; there is one plate of cold-looking spaghetti with meat sauce on the tablecloth, but I don't try to go near it, despite near-starvation clawing at the insides of my stomach. Doing so would only insure my death. Mom's already piercing blue eyes are glazed over with anger. Max looks smug. The two were not a good combination for me.

Attempting a weak smile, I try to walk to the stairway—forget dinner! I have my own life to consider!—without drawing attention to myself, but this is rather like trying to pull yourself out of a five-feet-tall pitcher of tar (which I don't recommend you to do. Trust me. I've tried. I now speak to the firemen in Springfield on a first-name basis.)

"Maybelline. Sapphire. Maple." My mother grinds out, accentuating each syllable of my name. I gulp, hopefully not too loudly. Slowly, I pivot on the spot to face her, noting with fear that her face is absolutely contained—a poker face, if there ever was one. And this could mean nothing good.

Gulping again, I manage to choke out, "Y—yes, mother," and add as an afterthought, "M-mother d-dear?"

"Don't mother-dear me," Mother snarls. I now truly fear for my life. Shaking, I attempt surreptitiously slip off my fanny pack, but that action is a little difficult when you're trembling as furiously as I am. Luckily for me, however, neither Mom or Max seem to care all that much—the former seems only intent on redding steadily.

"O-okay, mom," I say hesitantly.

My mother lets out a very slow, very exasperated, and very loud sigh. Max, who had previously been busy exchanging between the two tasks of looking smug at me and reading some book on Physics, is now looking understandably apprehensive. Oh, shoot. If Max is worried—Max, the perfect little angel—then I must be in all sorts of disaster.

"Maybelline," Mom begins again. I brace myself. "Ever since we moved here, you've been acting a little. . . weird." I relax slightly, then tense again. "But just because we've moved, that does not give you an excuse to come home so late at night. Tell me, May, what were you doing after school?"

"Detention," I say, staring shamefully at my knees.

"Detention?" Mom says, sounding both surprised and disappointed. Well, I'm glad that she's not fuming mad, at least; but this sort of cold discontent is almost worse than pure anger. Max smirks. I resist the temptation to thwack my brother across the head. "Maybelline Sapphire. . . this comes as a surprise." She frowns. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I forgot," I blur out, hoping I don't sound like I'm lying, because I'm not. "It just, well, sort of escaped me; and I, well, I guess I didn't think of phoning you or anything. . ."

Mom heaves another great sigh. "How typical of you, May," She continues icily. I feel my dignity sink lower and lower with each word. "You will definitely be punished for this. Hmm. . . let me think. . ." She pauses, looking as if she were contemplating something of utmost importance.

I hold my breath, hoping that Mother won't be too harsh. Given her record of unusual albeit infrequent punishments that she gives me, I could go either way. Sometimes she lets me off just by washing whichever sports car she drives at the time, and other times. . . well. . . I prefer not to dwell on the matter.

"You must write me an essay," Mom says finally. It's now my turn to frown—an _essay_? What sort of punishment was that? Nevertheless, I continue to listen to her speak. "It must be at least one thousand words long—any less, and you're writing another essay. Anyway, this will be an essay on what you think honesty and integrity, and _not forgetting to tell your mother that you have a detention _means. You'll hand this in when this term ends." Finishing, Mom leans back on her chair, looking proud with her accomplishment.

Trying my best not to look to relieved, I nod timidly and, deciding that I might as well satisfy my hunger before I faint of starvation, I sit down and begin eating. The food's not so bad.

Then, I remember something else. "Uh, Mom," I say, trying my best not to look nervous, "I have another detention today, and, uh, you'll have to pick me up at school at five today. . ."

Mother's face turns a lovely shade of tomato.

**Later**

The next day at lunch, I slide onto my usual table—by myself, of course. Picking up the plastic eating utensils, I lackadaisically prod at my lunch: a pile of reddish-brown goop, with ball-like features poking out at odd angles, and the customary loaf of rock-hard bread.

Sighing, I force myself to ladle a spoonful of the meat-sauce and smear it across the bread. Reluctantly, I lift it to my lips and take an unwilling bite. It's far too salty, but I don't complain.

Glancing around the lunchroom, I notice that Turquoise is seated with the good-looking scarlet-haired boy—Silver, I think, that was his name—and flirting extravagantly. It's a rather odd sight; I never thought of Silver, who I never heard utter a single word, as exactly a flirter, per say, but. . . I suppose I'm glad for Turquoise. She looks like she's having the time of her life.

Allowing my gaze to flit over the heads of the other students, I note that Misty is busy chastising her camera-man—she's a reporter for the school news or something like that—some rather scrawny black-haired boy whose name I can't recall. He looks positively terrified, in any case—I can see spit flying from Misty's mouth. Poor kid. I feel real bad for him; I don't wish the wrath of the volatile-tempered orange-haired girl upon anyone.

Looking elsewhere, I see Dawn chatting animatedly with the orange-haired Zoey, who looks rather bored. However, the ginger-haired Kenny and the blond Tyson appear to be listening closely, although obviously unbeknownst to the excitable cheerleader. Lucas, who is Dawn's brother, is seated next to Tyson, though he's definitely not paying any attention to Dawn's words—he's far too engrossed in his book on microbiology to pay attention to anything else, and regularly drops great red dollops of his food onto the pages out of sheer inobservance. (1) Vaguely, I wonder what Dawn is talking about so heatedly, but it's probably makeup or something. (I don't like makeup, much. I always accidentally snap the tubes of lipstick.)

Taking my gaze elsewhere, I disturbingly note that a girl with black hair and a tall, violet-haired teacher dressed completely in green have been staring at me with intense dislike. Gulping, I look away, though I can still feel their chartreuse and amethyst glares boring into my back, respectively, and I have a feeling that they'll continue to do that for the rest of the lunching period.

Looking away again, I notice that willowy Marina, dressed incredibly scantily, is conversing with her ring of equally-scantily garbed friends. Another black-haired boy is seated a little apart from the girls with a blond boy who has the strangest looking cowlick; but just closely enough to still be able to be associated with the girls. What is their affiliation, anyway? Vegan Marina doesn't seem like the type to have many male friends, and hell knows that she wouldn't dare cheat on Drew, even though he's cheating on _her_ quite stupendously.

Speak of the devil. An unnatural hush falls over the rowdy lunching students as the blue doors to the cafeteria part, revealing an entourage of robust male varsity basketball players. I recognize the mean-looking purple-haired teen and the equally mean-looking (and yet, queer) auburn-haired teen as part of the group. There are also two more boys, but I don't have the chance to recognize them.

The great Andrew Rosalind himself steps into the cafeteria. His bottle-green hair, I hate to admit, is rendered an even more alluring shade of green underneath the fluorescent lights, and his mere presence is enough to incur painfully high-pitched shrieks from most of the girl students (and some boy students.) Smirking, as if pleased by his easy accomplishments, he saunters his way through the crowd. Everyone respectfully parts for him. I wonder why they can stand him! Argh! Simply looking at his self-assured arrogance makes me want to tear my hair out. I compensate for this by tugging on my two brown side-bangs. He's a player, _too_—surely some rumor about his adulterous behavior should have gotten out; surely?

But, even as I disconcertedly watch Drew make his way through the group of lunching teenagers, I can see the worshippers' philosophy—he is simply too perfect. The way his silky bangs falls so casually, so elegantly, into his perfectly-formed feline emerald eyes; the way his lean but muscled body emanates a sort of heavenly vibe; the way he smirks so impossibly confidently, is just so. . . surreal.

And hot, but I don't want to admit that fact to myself.

In short, Drew Rosalind seems to have ascended to. . .

A god.

And worshipping of a god was all right, right? Because whoever thinks that his irregular attractiveness was _normal_, well. . . they're definitely insane or high on something. Still—Drew's a human, and humans have flaws; and I simply can't believe that nobody else has, before me, pointed them out.

Even as I try to assure myself that Drew isn't as perfect as he appears to be, his crystalline celadon eyes meets my own for the briefest of moments.

My heart freezes.

Then he looks away, and my heart defrosts just as quickly as it has frozen up. It still beats rapidly, and only resumes its normal rate when Drew has picked up his lunch and moved to his 'table'—butting off some other kids who had been sitting there, but they scamper off all too happily.

My thoughts flit back to yesterday's detention, and the operation 'D.R.M.D.' that Misty briefly mentioned. I have a feeling that she thought of the name for the plan—Drew Rosalind Must Die—on a gist, but I have another, stronger feeling that the four of us have to do our best to overthrow the subtle tyranny Drew Rosalind has set in Oak High.

**Later**

Detention (again.)

I manage to arrive there first this time, not wanting to be admonished for being late like the last time. Immediately, I set off to work; picking up two thick hard-covered novels from a table, I locate their correct spot and stuff them into place.

A few minutes later, Marina arrives. Naturally, she is the quietest of the three girls, so she doesn't say much, but also sets off to work. Another minute flies by, and Dawn announces her presence loudly with an uproarious, "Hey everybody! I'm here! Did y'all miss me?"

Dawn misfiles all of her books, leaving me—as Marina wouldn't degrade herself to picking up after others—to file all of her misfiled books. It's rather irritating work, as she misfiles excruciatingly quickly. A solid five minutes pass, and Misty finally arrives.

The two blue-haired girls look deliriously happy—they finally have a chance to deride the usually so composed Misty. The orange-haired girl, however, give neither a chance to do so. Swiftly retying her side-ponytail, she announces in a snobbish sort of way, "Hello, girls. Now, let's get down to business."

Without so much as glancing at the pile of books we were supposed to file over the week, Misty swaggers over to the whiteboard-on-wheels again. I hastily stuff another dictionary that Dawn misfiled into some shelf and look curiously at what the orange-haired reporter was doing.

Taking a marker from a nearby table, Misty loudly slings her sea-green backpack across the back of a chair and begins making marks on the white board. Dawn stops in her misfiling to look at what Misty was doing, as well; and somewhat grudgingly, Marina looks at what Misty is doing, too. It turns out that the orange-haired girl was simply titling the board in fat, cursive writing, 'Ideas Of Ways to Overthrow Drew Rosalind.' Underneath that, she added in tiny handwriting, 'who is actually Misty's bf, but w/e.'

Fortunately, neither Dawn nor Marina see this subtitle, as they are too lost in thought, undoubtedly pondering how to accomplish the task. I, too, wonder how we can achieve our objective, but it seems rather impossible. Misty coughs significantly and motions to the board. Looking, I note that she's written down, 'What Makes Drew Rosalind So Desirable As a Man.'

Immediately, Dawn pipes up, "His beautiful green eyes." Misty scribbles on the whiteboard, 'eyes'.

Sighing wistfully, Marina says, "His hot body." Misty nods fervently in agreement and writes on the whiteboard, 'hot body.' Then, she underlines 'hot' three times for emphasis. And another time for good measure.

All at the same time, the three girls say, "His silky green hair." Misty writes in loopy cursive, 'Hair' on the board.

I feel a little inadequate as I have failed to contribute anything to this discussion.

Unfortunately, the three girls notice this and turn to me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to make a comment. Hesitantly, I suggest, "He's, uh, he talks really silkily and enchantingly. . .?" Well, I can't say that I'm lying. He hasn't exchanged a full sentence with me, though I can still recall the fluidness those words had rolled off his tongue.

Dawn, Misty, and Marina stare at me for a few moments, before bursting out laughing all at the same time. I frown slightly; is my comment really that dumb? I don't think so, but Max tells me (and Ruby at some times) that I can be a little dense.

"What's so funny?" I say confusedly, scratching my red bandana.

"Mary," Marina wheezes between gulps of air and laughing fits. I simply can't be bothered to correct her. "You. . . crack me up. Drew's voice is definitely above average, as is all parts of his body,"—Misty and Dawn suddenly stop laughing to ogle her, their faces absolutely deadpan—"but. . . it's certainly not what makes him so _hot_! Sheesh, May, have you _ever _had a boyfriend?"

There is silence as blood drains and then floods back into my face.

"You've never had a boyfriend before?!" Dawn shrieks, absolutely appalled. Marina and Misty seem still too busy trying to digest this fact. At this precise moment, the hawk-nosed librarian rounds a shelve and shoots us a patronizing glare before sinisterly stalking away. I don't reply—do I really need to? Besides, I'm pretty sure that Dawn was being rhinoceros. No, wait. . . rhetorical. I always get the two confused.

Misty and Marina, shaken out of their reveries, look toward me now as if I am carrying some sort of highly contagious disease. Influenza, maybe. Dawn, meanwhile, is too disgusted to make another comment.

"Y-you mean, all this time we've been listening to a rookie like you?" Misty asks; also, a rhetorical question. "Goodness. All this time I thought we were following the advice of a master. . . and now. . ." She looks very close to an emotional breakdown. I think I can understand—from what I know of her, Misty appears to be a very organized (although equally aggressive) type of person.

"Great. Just wonderful," Marina groans, rubbing her forehead. "What are we going to do about operation D.R.M.D., now? We haven't even gotten past the first stage!"

In a desperate attempt to save my life and my reputation in my new school, I pipe up, "Well, we can still continue on with Misty's plan, and, like, try to find a way to exploit Drew or something. . ."

They turn toward me interestedly. Hurriedly, I rack my brain for more ideas, and voice the first thing that comes to mind.

"Well, Andrew Rosalind would be nothing if he didn't have his self-confidence," I begin, feeling a little apprehensive, "And, um, if he didn't have his arrogance then he'd be, you know, very weak and. . . stuff." I'm surprised that the other three girls are nodding along like I was giving a life-altering lecture, but I'm not complaining. "So. . . the best way to take away a man's pride is to take away his. . ."

Dawn, Misty, and Marina finish the sentence for me. "Manliness."

But none of us knew how to even _begin _achieving that. We stand in silence for a solid minute before the librarian, having reached the end of her tether, barks out a shrill, "GET TO WORK BEFORE I CALL THE PRINCIPAL!"

**Later**

Wow. . . I can't believe that I've actually lasted a week in my new school. That's almost a new record for me.

However, it hasn't been exactly an easy week. In between trying to decipher the advanced jargon pouring out of Ms. Rock's mouth concerning quadratic functions and trigonometric theories, attempting to have a normal conversation with Wally without having his face turn scarlet, trying to juggle the pressure that all the detentions have forced upon me, stealing oblique glances at Drew Rosalind whenever I have the chance (I swear I do not know what possesses me at times like these), trying to look smart in front of Mr. Stone and Mr. L'eau (2) (darn, I never knew that _art _class could be so hard), and trying to not tear my hair out at the fact that Ruby has failed to reply to my email, well. . . things have been a little rough. Dawn, Marina, Misty, and I still haven't managed to finish filing all of the books we were supposed to have finished filing.

Right now, it's Saturday morning—09:23, if I remember correctly—and I'm trying to cram the last few moments of sleep before starvation kicks into full gear and also trying to forget that I have to go to work immediately after lunch. Max is playing annoying classical music from the next room. I groan as he plays along with it on his violin and piano—simultaneously. (I've no idea as to how he manages that task; I've also no idea how Mom and Max—as we're too cheap to hire movers—managed to move that huge piano upstairs without tearing a large chunk of wall off the frame of the house, but that's a different matter entirely.)

"Argh, shut _up_, Max!" I mumble to myself, burying my head under my red pillow. Despite the fact that I hate the flawless music that's pouring straight through the thin walls, I don't actually have the guts to tell him that he should do me a favor and never touch a violin, piano, or stereo again. Last time I tried, I ended up with purple hair for a fortnight. And just _who_ has purple hair, anyway? (3)

To my surprise, it's not my bratty little brother who finally tells me to go downstairs and get some brunch, but my mother who first knocks on my door and lets herself in without waiting for a reply. Befuddled, I take my head out from other the pillow and stare questioningly at her.

More to my surprise, Mom's actually look cheerful, which hasn't happened since the night I told her about the whole detention thing. Her whole face radiates brilliance. It's a bit disturbing how joyful she can look at times. "May, you didn't tell me that you had friends coming over!" Mother says happily, seating herself on my red-painted chair without my permission—not that I command respect of any sort.

"I _don't _have friends coming over, Mom," I say, scratching the back of my bandana. Shoot, I forgot to take it off when I went to sleep—my head is going to look like tumbleweed when I remove it. "Well, actually, I do have a few. . ." I amend, thinking of Turquoise (who's spoken to me several times over the course of the week, though she's failed to remember my name) and Wally (who's remembered to remember my name.) I don't add '_I think_,' which I probably should have, since I don't have any idea whether or not Turquoise and Wally think of me as their friend.

"Wow, that's _great_, May!" Mother beams at me, as if I've just told her that she's just won a million dollars in the lottery. "You haven't had a real friend since Professor Birch's kid, Brendan! And that was way back in Japan, too. Anyway, you better hurry up and change and go downstairs to meet your friends."

Knowing that it was useless to protest, I grab a new set of my outfit and drag my feet over to the bathroom, sighing as I close the door behind me. In record time, I change and brush my teeth, not bothering to untie my bandana for fear of the evil that lurks underneath. Trudging downstairs, I find out (to my surprise again) that Dawn, Misty, and Marina are seated at the dining table, munching on a couple of pancakes left over from the breakfast that I did not attend.

"Hey, Mary!" Dawn says happily, waving her hand at me. I notice that she's not wearing her usual beanie today. Instead, she has decided to display the great wonderfulness that is her (unnaturally shiny) azure hair to the world. I wonder why she picked my Saturday to do so. "We thought we'd come over here to discuss plans for Operation D.R.M.D.! And pshaww, your mum's _hot! _I thought she was your older sister at first. 'S pity you didn't inherit her hotness."

"How. . . wonderful," I say soberly, subtly flaunting my mastery of sarcasm. Casting a dark glare at my mother, I reluctantly seat myself at the end of the dining table, as far away from the three girls as possible; I note that they're all wearing outfits a little different from their usual school attires—the changes are all pertinent to a considerable lessening of the surface area of the clothes that are covering their skin (I learned that from Ms. Rock!)

Taking a loud bite out of her pancake and swallowing, Misty says, "Good morning, Mary. How does your day go so far?" Then, without waiting for me to continue, she says, "Whatever. I don't care. Let's get down to business."

Extravagantly, she dabs at her mouth with a tissue and gets to her feet. At an apt time, Mom leaves to go upstairs, probably to compliment Max on his musical talents. I look to Misty, who's seated herself on the couch and has pulled out a thick notebook and a blue ballpoint pin.

"So, I've been doing a little thinking over the week, but I still haven't managed to come up with any decent ideas," Misty says professionally, adjusting herself on the sofa so that she's facing us. I'm a little amazed at how obsessed she is—no, wait, all of them are—with this Drew Rosalind business. "Do any of you nitwits have any ideas?"

"No," Dawn and Marina say somberly, looking ashamed of themselves.

"No," I concur, continuing, "But just how did you find the address of my house?"

"Well, at first I tried asking Wally where you lived, since I thought I saw you talking to him the first afternoon of our detention, but he just flushed a really dark shade of crimson and looked away, not answering my question at all," Misty says dismissively, waving her hand. "Then I tried randomly asking people around the place—said it was for a school report, of course they replied, but all of them didn't know that you existed—but then some sophomore girl with black hair (4)—or was it dark gray, I can't tell—gave me this address, so I phoned up Dawn and Marina here and we drove in Dawn's mother's Ferrari over here."

It's a rather long procedure, but from the casual way Misty worded her sentences, you would have never been able to tell. However, I'm astounded that three girls three extremely different cliques have managed to band together just for this one cause. "Oh," I say dumbly.

Dawn takes this time to pull out a medicine bottle of some sort from her jellyroll bag and unscrew the cap, pouring a couple of light-colored tablets into her pale hands. Marina immediately assumes a stern expression.

"You really shouldn't be taking those pills, Dawn," Marina reprimands disapprovingly, shaking her head, "They're really bad for you. Plus, don't you know just how many cute little animals are killed by animal testing just to make those tablets. . .?"

"Hey!" Dawn retorts, "My mom takes these all the time! Guys take man-pills—or steroids, whatever you call 'em—all the time for sports! I just want to go up a cup size!"

Marina's eyes twitches repeatedly for a few moments, and she looks like she's gathering her thoughts for another rebuke. Misty, however, has dropped her notebook to the carpeted floor and stares at Dawn as if she were a goddess.

"Wait, Dawn, say that again," Misty says.

"Say what again?" Dawn asks, appearing confused.

"Just repeat what you last said one more time!"

"What, the part about going up a cup size—?"

"No, no, the part before that! Nobody cares what cup size your pathetically small breasts are!" Misty says, losing her already short temper with Dawn's understandable slowness. Well, so much for thinking that Misty thought the azure-haired girl was a goddess. Dawn turns a nasty shade of maroon, and while I grow more terrified by the threat of another fight, Marina steps in as the mediator.

"Hold on, girls," The cerulean-haired vegan says, thrusting her slender arms between the other two girls, "Dawn, Misty didn't mean to offend you; Misty, Dawn doesn't really get what you're saying—"

"_She insulted my boobs!_" Dawn shrieks, losing it. Afraid, I look to the stairs, expecting to see Mom thundering down any moment now, but the faint classical background music still plays on. "They're not small!"—I glance briefly towards Dawn's chest, and note that they really are kind of small, but wisely I do not voice my opinion—"They're a 'B' already!"

"Why, did you stuff your bra with a boxful of tissue?" Misty says, suppressing sniggers and failing at the task.

"Enough already!" I yell, waving my hands. Surprisingly (it seems that my life's now full of them), Dawn and Misty stop bickering, though they are still looking rather haughty. "Just chill! You don't need to get worked up over a little matter like this! In fact, this whole operation won't succeed if we can't even cooperate." Tiredly, I knead my forehead. "Ugh, Dawn, just repeat what you said before the whole cup-thing."

Huffing indignantly, Dawn says bitterly, "I said that guys also take pills—"

"That's it! That's it! That's how we'll bring down Drew Rosalind!" Misty hollers. I half-expect her to yell, 'eureka!', but that would have been a little embarrassing. "He takes pills, doesn't he, Dawn? Since he's the lead basketball player and you're the cheerleader, you should know this."

"Yeah, _duh_," Dawn says, rolling her eyes. "He takes them quite frequently, actually." Marina looks aghast, but Misty looks inspired. Me, I'm torn between.

"So I guess you could say that his steroids are his_ source of manliness_," Misty says, her turquoise eyes flashing enigmatically. Dawn, Marina, and I don't need the orange-haired girl to spell it out for us, but she does anyway. "And since our original plan was to take away his manliness, if we put two and two together, that means that we should. . ."

All together, we finish, "Take away his pills." (5)

**Author's Notes:**

(1) I'm pretty sure I'm the first person to instigate a 'book-worm' Lucas. Eh. Worth a try.

(2) Mr. L'eau is the last name I gave to Wallace (aka the eighth/last gym leader in Ruby and Sapphire and the Champion in Emerald) in this fanfic, by the way. In case you did not know already, it means 'Water' in French.

(3) No offense to Harley, of course. I freakin' adore him, actually, but I'll stop spamming up the author's notes.

(4) . . . I seriously couldn't resist. Get it? You probably don't. Well, it doesn't matter too much.

(5) While replying to an email from the wonderful beta of this story (Arc Knight in case I have not emphasized that enough), I suddenly, erm, decided that I want to tell all of those who've watched_ John Tucker Must Die _that I'm making a minor canonical change here. It won't be significant, but hopefully, it will add to the humor of this fic in the future. You'll see what I mean, in time. On the other hand, if you've never watched the film, kindly ignore this paragraph.

I spent eons on this, but it still came out horribly. . . -sighs- Well, I hope it wasn't _too _much of a disappointment. . . -cringes- Gosh, I really don't deserve any reviews, but I still want them anyway. :K Proves what a big hypocrite I am.

Anyway, much thanks to Arc Knight for his beta'ing work on this piece. (:

Now. . . review, please? I promise I'll try harder next time.

**Pokemon Characters and Pokemon © Nintendo, Gamefreak, Satoshi T., and the rest.  
John Tucker Must Die © ****20****th**** Century Fox****  
Writing © Galbinus.  
Do not redistribute.**


	5. The Plan Is Carried Out

**Drew Rosalind Must Die**  
by Galbinus

**Chapter Five: The Plan Is Carried Out**

Dawn stole a giant bottle of her mother's breast-enhancing-estrogen-lowering pills to my house and presents them to us on Sunday, before Monday, when Operation DRMD would begin. Marina spends two hours perusing the instructions and making nasty comments in the side—only now do I realize how fiercely liberal she is, and it really scares me—much to the distaste of Dawn. Misty oversees the entire affair, making sure that Dawn didn't sneak in a few pills and that Marina didn't give up on her rude commentary and rip up the entire manual. Meanwhile, I simply watch from the side.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this? I don't really want to know the answer.

**Later; The next day**

It turns out that basketball practice is a huge part of a teenaged boy's life. Not only are they allowed to skip classes and homework (with the permission of their coach, no less!) simply to practice shooting a couple of oversized orange balls into nets, but they're apparently revered for it! Me, I personally don't think much of sports, although deep in my heart I harbor a secret desire to compete in global athletic tournaments but I don't intend to share that aspiration with others, so learning this merely adds to my dislike of Drew. I watch from the sidelines—having forgone lunch, which is a huge sacrifice for me—of the basketball court as the 'Wild Cats' practice lay-ups and shooting and whatnot.

But, oh good lord, he looks so _hot_when he leaps into the air like that—as a look of such fierce, intense, passionate concentration crosses his usual stoic features—as he arches gracefully towards his target, muscles rippling as he gathers his strength for the final blow—as time herself seems to stop, simply to allow this unnaturally talented, beautiful, graceful human to deliver his attack—and the grand finale, as Drew slam-dunks the basketball and his crowd of screaming fans erupt into fervent shrieks of absolute joy.

Drew, landing with feline elegance on his tennis shoes, smirks proudly and bows deeply in the direction of his fans, eliciting even more screams. Flicking his bangs out of his deep chartreuse eyes, Drew saunters over to the crowd and, procuring a solitary rose from seemingly thin air, plucked a single scarlet petal from the flower and flicks it daintily into the audience.

The result was absolute chaos as girls (and boys) tackled each other for possession of the flower body part. I watch, my throat feeling rather dry, as the P.E. teacher—a wiry middle-aged man with wild cornflower-blue hair—tries his best to suppress the crazed audience. He ends up being flung painfully-looking into a nearby wall, and doesn't move much after that, though from the sporadic twitching of his feet I can tell that he's not dead.

The green-haired basketball star was busy surveying the disorder he incurred with a proud smirk. I glance over at Dawn, dipping my head ever so slightly to signal for her to carry on the next part of our plan. She acknowledges my signal with a small nod of her own. While the crowd is busy fighting each other over the rose petal, Dawn promenades showily to Drew, flirtatiously draping her thin arms over his muscular shoulders.

An envious feeling envelopes my mind, but I shake it away, my cerulean eyes still trained on Dawn and Drew. I strain my ears and make out their conversation just well enough to distinguish their words against the discordant roar of the crowd.

"Drewsie," Dawn purrs, coating her already naturally sweet voice with another layer of honey, "That was a _great_shot."

"Thanks," Drew says off-handedly, waving his arm with casual informality. I wonder how anyone can appear so nonchalant and yet so amorous at the same time.

"But Drew," Dawn says, pouting slightly, "I think you're losing your touch,"—at these words, Drew cocks an eyebrow; something angry instinctively rears up inside of me, insisting that I retort to Dawn's very false words, before I remember that this was part of the plan—"Surely you're still taking the pills Coach Brawly gives you?"

"Of course, Dawn." Drew replies with fluid ease. His eyebrow remains hidden underneath his silky green hair.

"Well, I think you should _double_your intake," Dawn says, lips curling up in a devious smile. Her ivory arms still wrapped around Drew's shoulders, she surreptitiously maneuvers herself and Drew to idle by the omnipresent refreshment stand, where Drew's water bottle—it is distinctive among the other basketball players' as Drew's water bottle is adorned with myriad pink love notes from his many admirers—was standing. I have to draw closer to hear what they're saying. I note that there is a pill-container very similar to Dawn's mother's standing next to Drew's water bottle, and I presume that this pill-container is also Drew's in that it is likewise decorated with love letters.

A momentous silence later, Drew says, "Very well; I'll do as you bid me," before kissing Dawn fleetingly on her rounded cheekbones—why is it that I am feeling so jealous?—and sprinting off to do a couple more lay-ups. Smooth.

Dawn shoots me a successful look before quickly pulling out her mother's breast-enhancing pill-case from her dandelion jellyroll bag and dumping out a bunch of smooth white tablets into a ready cupped hand, emptying the entire bottle. Then, with professional speed, she uses her free hand to twist off the cap of Drew's pill-bottle and pours all of its contents into her mother's empty pill-bottle. Now that Drew's pill-bottle has been vacated, Dawn dumps her mother's breast-enhancing pills into the bottle and secures the cap.

Finishing the swap of steroids and breast-enhancers, Dawn raises her right thumb in a triumphant gesture and winks at me before scooting off to blend herself in with the crowd, who seem to have gotten over their brief rose frenzy.

Drew saunters back to the table, not noticing that Dawn was gone—the arrogant bastard he was—and idly picked up the testerone-estrogen-bottle-thing (that is getting hard to think, to be honest). He eyeballs it circumspectly for a moment, and my breath catches in my throat—would he not drink it? But my worried cake is dough. Drew flipped open the bottle and began gulping down the contents.

I watch as his Adam's apple oscillated, before he finished his intake of the T.E.B.T. and, 'ahh'-ing satisfactorily, screwed the cap of the bottle on again.

Though I know it is impervious of chastise of me to note such mundane things, I marvel at how fastidiously Drew completes each action. It's as if he's an actor, making his movements with almost practiced ease. I wonder what he hides beneath that impassive mask of his. How could he be so cool yet passionate at the same time? Surely, it was zeal I saw flash across his celadon eyes with every fleeting kiss he gave Dawn, Misty, or Marina, was it not?

"Ooh, Mary, you like Drew too, don't you?" Turquoise says suddenly in her usual flighty voice, bumbling up to my side out of nowhere. Her voice is barely audible above the incongruous roar of the crowd.

"W-what?" I stutter indignantly, a furious flush rising to my cheekbones. "Don't be crazy, Turquoise, I don't like Drew! He is a pompous—ass with—"

"Go on," Silver says. I am thrown off track for a little moment. Mute Silver? Speaking?

Glancing at the arms he is wrapping lovingly around Turquoise's neck, I figure out that it is probably Turquoise's presence that is influencing him into speech. Something twists in my stomach at the amorous looks the two exchange.

"No, seriously, go on," Turquoise says, laughing slightly, "I really want to hear what you think about Drew. Personally I think that he's quite"—Turquoise giggles—"hot,"—Silver frowns—"but you seem to think different so I want to know exactly what you have to say about him."

"Fine," I say, gearing myself up for a full-blown rant, "First of all, I hate the way that he swaggers around the school, looking like he owns the place; and I don't get why all those girls swoon over him, I've seen _far_more attractive _men_ in my life."

Somewhere in Tokyo, I am sure that Ruby is having a seizure.

"Secondly, it really pisses me off that he simply doesn't talk to anyone besides from exchanging a few words with his entourage. It's like he thinks he'sjust_sooo_much better than everyone else, he won't even 'degrade' himself to conversation! I've seen some girls try to talk to him, and he's

either snapped rudely at them or ignored them. And thirdly, no, I, uh, I really don't think that Drew is all that h—"

The bell rings for fifth period.

**Later**

When I arrive home, I discover to my horror that Mom has bought Max a guitar.

A guitar.

A freaking _electric_guitar.

A freaking _electric guitar_!

Screaming insanely, I run up to my room, forget to shut my door, and dig around in a recently opened cardboard box for earmuffs. Finding my usual red ones, I grab a bottle of Super glue and glue the earmuffs to my two ears. Any later physical pain will be worth the tragedy I am safeguarding myself against. Just as I am thinking these very words, Max begins strumming the first few notes to whatever classical guitar music he was learning.

It puzzles me where Mom got the extra money to pay for the guitar, but Mom's fiscal worries are not mine, and I don't like math anyway.

Waking up my computer from 'sleep' mode with a few randomized keystrokes, I watch as the ancient screen shimmers into light and open up Internet Explorer (which I still have despite Ruby's many implorations of me to switch to FireFox, but as I am mortally afraid of anything with a flame I decided against it on all twenty-seven occasions). Checking my Gmail account, I note that the aforementioned teenager has replied to my email.

_Dear Sapphire,_ I read.

_I am truly beginning to question your sanity._

Well, that doesn't sound very supportive.

_However this does not mean that I do not condone your behavior._

_This Drew fellow, who I will fondly nickname 'Grass Ass', does seem to be a bastard, and you know that I do not engage in plebeian profanities so easily. He is a sexist, dissolute playboy, from what you have told me and what you have implied._

_I must, though, caution you against taking such drastic measures. Though steroids are in all senses illegal to use, especially when participating in athletics that hold some sort of significance beyond the Little League, swapping someone's medication for another that could be potentially dangerous is very. . . inhumane._

I frown, feeling embarrassed.

_But hilarious. Send me photos._

I smile.

_If you were caring, I have been doing all right in Tokyo. Father is out on a researching trip while Mother is at a yoga lesson (I wanted to go but I feel that completing this email is of higher importance). Aunt Winona is to come in a week with Aunt Flannery. I am not sure how Father will feel about this as he is slightly homophobic, but if he offends the two Mother will have him in a headlock before you can say 'Birch.'_

_I hope that you are finding life in the Big Apple pleasant. I believe they have a Nintendo World of sorts somewhere in the city, which you may enjoy._

_From,  
Ruby_

_P.S. I finally got my black belt from Bruno. I would give you a blow-by-blow account of the karate match, but you probably don't care and Mom has just phoned, telling me that she signed me up for extra ballet lessons!_

After reading the email, I am considerably happier. I feel really glad for Ruby, since I know how long he's been waiting to pursue his dancing career, and with those extra ballet lessons, who knows? He could be a. . . like a. . . dancing karate person.

It is then that I am aware of a horrible screeching noise searing up the stairwell and through the threshold of my room's door which I have so stupidly forgotten to shut.

Mom has apparently arrived home, as I can hear her praising Max with vocabulary that I'd thought was beyond her capability.

"May! May! Come hear your brother sing! Aww, he's such a talented little kid!" Mom shouts from the living room. I think I hear her clapping along with Max's song.

Groaning, my happy mood bubble bursts, and I flag the email and grab two wads of cotton.

**Later; The next day**

"Oh-Em-Gee, Mary!"

My ears flinch at the high-pitched coquettish voice of Dawn Ikari. With much trepidation, I turn around in my seat, taking my time. After all, school had just ended, and Dawn has actually sounded out the syllables of the popular Internet acronym.

"Mary! You deaf? School's outTime to see if our plan has worked!" Dawn says in her usual sing-song voice. I wish I had brought more cotton to school. People have told me that I am preppy, (read: Ruby) but my 'cheeriness' is dwarfed when compared to Dawn's incredibly irritable vociferousness.

Groaning, I say, "Dawn, my name is—"

"Mary!" Misty interjects. Both Dawn and I look to the doorway of the classroom, where the last of the kids, who were mostly math nerds and composed entirely of Lucas, were leaving. Misty, though not an exceptionally tall person, looks particularly imposing today and seems to cover the entire doorway, positively radiating formidability.

Though I am daunted by Misty's semblance to Hillary Clinton (even though, you know, I don't mind a woman president since I am a closet feminist), Dawn is not, and the first thing that the blue-haired girl says to the orange-haired girl was, "Oh, hey, bitch."

Wait, I thought Dawn and Misty were on good terms?

"Shut up, blueberry," Misty says unflinchingly, and before Dawn's hamsters could run fast enough for her to churn out a coherent response, Misty steamrollers on, "Mary, are you _not_aware that today is the first big game of the basketball season?"

Realizing that Misty is addressing me, I jerk involuntarily but reply hurriedly, "Uh, no. . .?"

Misty looks at me, absolutely deadpan. "Whatever. Get inside the car, now."

And that is how, before I know it, I am being whisked off to the first real basketball game of my life.

**Author's Notes:**

LOL SORRY FOR THE LATE LATE LATE UPDATE AND THE SHORTNESS

But I have this really bad writer's block and IT'S NOT GOING AWAY NOOOO

I am really worried about the in-characterness of my characters. . . PLEASE provide critique on how I can improve in this field. :c I tried to keep May the hesitant, bubbly girl that she is, but I sort of neglected the latter part of her personality. Dawn is too much of an airhead in this fic, a flaw which I will try to tone down later on through character development, but I am probably beyond help anyway. Misty. . . I don't care about her so that's why she's so OOC, LOL. Marina. . . How the _heck_am I supposed to write her, anyway? Most of her personality is derived from the movie character and the lame-ass summary on Bulbapedia that I read.

. . . I don't think that Dawn and Misty would get along together very well though. Two fiery but otherwise polar-opposite personalities equal absolutely anarchy in my opinion.

I'm really sorry for this incredibly long author's notes rant thing, but I posted this chapter with the beta-ation of my awesome-supreme-deluxe beta Arc Knight, so yeah.

Please review?

**ON THE NEXT GALBINUS UPDATE, expect NATURAL DISTURBANCES!**


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